


Heart Bound

by 4getfulimaginator



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Jane Eyre Fusion, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Inspired by Novel, References to Jane Austen, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Virginity, Young Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Young Emma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 11:49:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 85,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2467268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/4getfulimaginator/pseuds/4getfulimaginator
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>CS historical AU (mid-19th century), real world setting, teacher!Emma and artist!Killian.</b> </p><p>After years of private tutoring, Emma goes to teach in a village by the sea in a desperate bid to escape her heartbreak and the outside world. She thinks that she'll always be lonely and out of place, but the local lighthouse keeper, a fellow recluse and the town outcast, makes her see that she is right where she belongs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Years ago, when I was only dreaming of writing fiction and hadn't actually put pen to paper, there was a romantic period novel I envisioned, a Jane Eyre retelling that had its own twists and turns and...it really wasn't like Bronte's novel, but it had elements from it. However, despite the fact that I had brainstormed extensively and done special research on the settings and time period, I gave up this would-be novel for personal reasons.
> 
> But now I have been inspired to pick up the storyline again, making changes and condensing the plot into something more solid.
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing except the plot. A humongous thank you to my beta, **believing-in-words** (Tumblr) and to dear **Lifeinthewoods** , for all their help and suggestions.

The day she sets foot in Storybrooke, she just  _knows_  that everything will be different. It's a strange feeling, this premonition that won't go away. Perhaps it's a good omen, or a foretelling of terrible times to come. Of course, she can't tell which it is.

But as always, Emma Swan takes her hopes in stride with her doubts, telling herself repeatedly that she shouldn't want for anything but secretly wishing that finally, this could be home. Her home, the one she's been searching for since she was really young and naïve and lonely.

_Not so young now, but still lonely. Praying she's not foolish this time around, like she had let herself be before._

Looking at the simple village houses, the rolling hills and cliffs in the distance that indicate how close they are to the sea, she realizes that her journey has come down to this. First, it was helping Robin find his "happy ending" (with a dish of sadness on the side of that tale, her own personal love story that became all twisted and wrong in one instant)... Then Graham, in all his sweetness and melancholy and his dear, dear mother who became like her own... And now this.

True be told, she had begun to see that maybe she had a talent for reaching out to others like herself, those who had been scorned and hurt and broken.

She had been told she had a gift – and from the looks of her new surroundings, she will really need to believe in this.

True to her nature, she has only one item of luggage, containing all that she owns in the world. Currently, it is heavily resting in the grip of her right hand, the left clinging to the hat she is holding desperately onto the top of her head.

Her skirt whipping about her legs, Emma descends down the dirt path, obviously well-trodden if judging solely by appearance, and curses under her breath when she nearly stumbles into a rather large prickly pine tree. Now that she notices it, there are trees of many varieties anywhere her eyes glance upon, the greenery almost overwhelming in stark contrast to the sandy beach she can just glimpse beyond the boundary of the buildings and streets.

Nevertheless, the countryside and nearby wilderness are oddly complemented by the domesticity of the little town, so quaint and solid that it seems to belong to its own world, free from factories and smoke and the ever present "division of the classes." As if all is at peace, and life is as it should be.

The visible solitude in the place that is to be her new abode gives her both relief and a throb of agony, too many reminders and suppressed longing coming to the surface at once.

_He broke her heart. He gave her hope, then tore it away with his exposed lies. And worst of all, how she had loved him in return–_

Picking her steps carefully amid the muck and wet ground, she barely realizes where she is going until she unknowingly collides with a warm, quickly moving form. God, she must have been daydreaming again...

"Oi, watch where you're bloody going, will you?" The voice is very cross and irritated, disdain in every word. But when her gaze comes into focus and she looks up to see the stranger and apologize for her clumsiness, her breath gets caught in her throat and she nearly chokes on her whispered " _pardon me_."

Striking blue eyes glint at her pointedly, furrowed brow and grimace indicating just how displeased he is at being pummeled by her. Without saying anything in return, neither accepting nor even acknowledging her apology, his stare narrows into one of heat, and she flinches visibly under that angry sight.

Before she can get a really good look at him, he mutters something unintelligible, pulls back and steps around her, sauntering once again in the opposite direction.

He doesn't turn around to peek back at her, but she makes a note of his long black leather coat, the tousled dark hair that is being brushed constantly by the capricious winds.

Harrumphing at his rudeness, she straightens her skirt and coat and proceeds to head toward what she hopes is the new schoolhouse, her boots sinking into a particularly muddy hole that she couldn't avoid.

Staring at her stained petticoat and soiled shoes, she huffs in exasperation.  _What a way to make a good first impression..._

* * *

"This will be your room, and the water closet is right in there. I'm sorry the place is so small, but the council couldn't afford to accommodate the new teacher any more than necessary – well, at least you have a garden out back, and there's lots of privacy..."

Emma tries to tune out the new girl's optimistic chatter – Mary Margaret Blanchard, was it? – because after one hell of a carriage ride and three straight days on horseback, she is too damn exhausted to give a care about the size of the so-called hut she would be living in behind the school, the sad excuse for a yard another dismal aspect of the whole presentation. It has only one room, and the only blessing of it is that she doesn't have to take care of "bodily needs" outside. Otherwise, her new "house" is a moldy, damp, and gloomy den – so  _cozy_.

So very  _encouraging_.

"Anyway, if there's anything you need, feel free to call on me or David – I live in the house just along the path, and he's on the farm two houses down."

She snaps to attention, blinking rapidly. "Um...thank you." Emma grins weakly, hoping her attempt at a cheerful expression fools Mary Margaret, who is not only unusually beautiful but also as graceful as a fairy, her movements ethereal as she tinkers through the furnishments with a visible glare of distaste. "I don't want to be a bother–"

"But you aren't!" she replies, knocking down an old pewter mug that was already toppling over the corner of a worn-out bookshelf. It crashes to the floor and dissipates in a puff of dust, and suddenly, the absurdity of it all – the long trip, the reason behind it, the desire for change and her fear of it – makes Emma chuckle. Then the girl with the snow white complexion and raven hair begins to laugh as well, until they both are wrapping their arms around their stomachs to hold back more peals of laughter.

"Well, this is quite a welcome," Emma finally retorts, dropping her bag next to the dilapidated bed and flopping down on the mattress, only to arouse another cloud of dust. Smiling, Mary Margaret joins her side, patting her tentatively on the shoulder when she sniffles and frowns at her clasped hands on her lap.

"Everything will be alright," Mary Margaret says kindly. "Hey, if you'd like...I can send David down here during the next few days – he's good with tools and fixing things, so maybe he can restore this place a bit? Help you get back on your feet?"

"Who's David?" she asks, sighing from exhaustion and defeat.

"Oh – how silly of me! David Nolan's my...well, we're betrothed." She glances from under her eyelashes. "He's a shepherd, but we have plans. We want to leave this village, see the world. With his mother, of course."

"How wonderful for you." Emma really doesn't have the energy or the patience to sound elated at this point. Instead, a wave of disappointment is trying to throttle her, and she's pushing it down with every breath she takes.

However, Mary Margaret seems to understand her better than she thinks, because she only gives her another warm, sympathetic smile in response before rising up and then reaching down to lift up a covered basket and lay it down on the oak table. "From Granny and Red – so you won't have to worry about cooking for a while."

Emma nods and bites her lower lip, preferring to stay silent. But right before Mary Margaret leaves, she sticks her head through the open entrance and says, "I can tell that this may look...unpromising...but I just want you to know that we're happy you're here, Emma. So...have hope that all will get better with time?"

The memory of the pure radiance and light in the girl's flawless face is what keeps Emma from bursting into tears after night falls, huddled in the moth-eaten covers as she watches the flame of her solitary candle flicker in the bitter wind.

_Alone and lost, just like her._

So much for new beginnings, when the past is haunting her at every turn.

It was a mistake to come here at all. Why had she agreed to this?

* * *

Despite her bloodshot eyes and runny nose the next morning, Emma puts on her best dress, combs her hair thoroughly and rolls it into a simple chignon, and checks her overall appearance in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall. She hesitates before departing, taking a minute to sneak a peek under the basket of goodies Mary Margaret's friends gave her. Surprisingly, it's a cornucopia of hearty wealth: scones, breads, a soup mix, pastries, and a large variety of vegetables and fruits adorn the sides and center, arranged decoratively in a circle.

Losing her appetite when she remembers where she has to go this instant, Emma dejectedly lowers the checkerboard patterned towel and hurries out the door, strangely eager to confront whatever future is waiting for her.

It doesn't take long to find out exactly what she's up against.

First, she has to sit through Sunday service, listening to some thin, red-haired man with spectacles drone on and on about the importance of listening to one's conscience, a mission in life dedicated to not only the finding of one's happiness but also helping others to find theirs as well. It isn't that she doesn't concur with anything he is saying.

She just despises people preaching at her – that's all.

By the time the sun is high in the sky, Emma is standing awkwardly by the minister as he beckons everyone to come to the schoolhouse, where the blessing and honorary first lesson will take place.

She also hates being the center of attention.

Still, she can't help feeling lighter inside when Mary Margaret approaches her and gently entwines her arm around hers, backed by a golden-haired, handsome smiling man who could only be the famous David Nolan.

He does indeed introduce himself as such, welcomes her to Storybrooke with as much charm as he can muster (because his schoolboy bashfulness seems to be more bountiful), and wordlessly escorts both her and his fiancé to their destination.

Out of the corner of her eye, Emma sees him enfold Mary Margaret's other hand in his own. Deep in her heart, she envies them, that they have trust in each other and their feelings. If only all could be so fortunate...

It hurts not to trust your own heart for fear it will break you.

Shaking these morose thoughts away, she puts on a wide smile for the sake of the children in front of her, all eagerly sitting in their plain wooden desks are in fact simple tables and benches. They are all ears after the minister's dedication, waiting for her next words. Clearing her throat, she takes a long look around the crowded room, at all the hopeful, doubtful parents who are dreaming of giving their offspring a good education and better prospects for tomorrow. They are counting on her, both the children and their parents.

Remembering how it began, how it ended, how it continues, Emma straightens her pose, grabs the piece of chalk from beside the blackboard, and starts to write.

"My name is Emma Swan – you can call me Miss Swan – and from today onward, I'm going to be your teacher."

She turns and faces them once more, standing tall by her fine cursive script etched out in white. "Welcome to my classroom."

* * *


	2. Unsettled

In Emma's opinion, one of life's greatest challenges is motivating people to do something they're not keen on doing at all. It was the reason why she had been so hesitant in even listening to Mother Superior's suggestion that she teach for a living.

 _As if she really had any choices._  In these times, women... Well, the only thing they own is the position of "Mother and Housewife." And that is not a type of employment she will be considering anytime in the near present or future.

No, sidestepping youngsters ranging from five years old to fifteen in their efforts to distract and dissuade her from her set course of action to educate them is a much better solution to what she likes to call "the marriage problem."

Still, despite how aggravating the ogling stares of adolescent village boys and the high-pitched giggles of frolicking little girls are, she remembers how tough it was to discipline some of her other pupils under different circumstances, and it's safe to say that in the end she believes she has made substantial progress.

Clearing her throat to make her voice loud and true, she enunciates very pointedly and in no uncertain terms that disrespectful behavior of any kind will be not be tolerated in or outside the schoolroom, whether it is directed towards her or any of their classmates. Tardiness, absence without sufficient cause, and failing to complete assigned work will result in punishment.

When a few of the oldest boys sitting in the back snicker at this, Emma smirks and says that since the schoolhouse was refurbished so nicely, the townsfolk will be very happy to receive any  _gratis_  aid in repairing their own houses, regarding whitewashing, thatching the roofs, general yardwork, repairing the outdoor water closets. Naturally, since she will be openly promoting compassion as another reputable virtue inside her classroom, they are very welcome to volunteer first to help their neighbors out of the goodness of their hearts.

If they fail to do as they've promised, she's quite sure they'll be hearing from other people besides their parents about not keeping their word and leaving their unfinished work hanging by a thread. And if anyone wants to become the classroom cleaner, washing the chalkboard and sweeping the floors after school five times a week, she can make that dream come true quicker than she can snap her fingers twice.

Needless to say, no one over the age of ten utters even a squeak for the rest of the morning.

Moreover, when it comes to subject matter, the children looked utterly bored by the prospect of learning their ABCs and 123s. She attempts to rouse their spirits by saying how useful these skills are, but one boy pipes up and says he's never even seen a book in his life, while a girl maybe eight years old objects to the idea of counting by stating that she'll be working a loom until she's as old as her granny, so what would she need numbers for?

Emma doesn't even dare to venture beyond mathematics and English, saving the purposes of history, science, art, Latin, and music for another day.

Nevertheless, the Sunday lesson flies by and ends well before lunchtime, and once her last student is out the door, she slumps in her teacher's chair and buries her face in her hands.

How is she going to do this?

How is she going to persuade them that this is worthwhile, when she couldn't even believe it herself?

* * *

Emma tells herself that it was just out of desperation that she accepted their invitation, that this has nothing to do with the fact that she likes their company and wants to see at least one friendly face in this town. That's why she's dressed in her best, standing on David's porch with a nervous expression and anxious feet skittering from side to side.

Oh, sure it is.

When she raises her hand to knock again, the door opens slowly of its own accord and an older, amiable looking woman peers out. She scrutinizes Emma for a moment; in that second of time, Emma worries that she'll be turned out and flung away like all those orphanages and possible parents had done to her before.

Instead, she is happily surprised when she is ushered inside as if she were one of the family. "Oh, you must be the Emma that David has been telling me about ― come in, my child, come in! You'll catch your death out here, standing in only that frock and with no leggings..."

She is David's mother, Ruth, and she has the heart of a lamb and the manners of a great lady. When she calls her Miss Swan, Emma asks all present to please call her by her first name, as she is a person and not a bird. That quip earns a smile from Ruth.

David grins fondly at Emma when he sees her being herded into a chair by the fireplace and instructed to remove her bonnet and shawl so they can get warm and dry by the roaring hearth. Mary Margaret, on the other hand, only chuckles as she stirs the cooking pot simmering on the stove.

They have shepherd's pie and crusty homemade bread for supper, followed by gooseberry pie and a gentle amount of wine. Surrounded by three people who seem to genuinely care what she thinks and feels, Emma basks in the attention and carries the conversations as far as she can, and when it's time to clean up, she offers to wash the dishes and Mary Margaret says she'll dry them, much to Ruth's protest.

Reminded of days gone by, Emma smiles when she overhears Ruth talking to David about the farm, the sheep, and when he'll finally marry Mary Margaret. The girl beside her smiles sheepishly herself and chokes on a stifled laugh when David starts to make excuses.

This home smells and speaks and breathes of family, of true love, of happiness. Emma can recognize poverty when she sees it, being an unwilling participant in its sorrows herself, but in spite of how little they have materially, David and his mother have the greatest treasure in this world. It's written in their faces, how much they care for those they love, and it's like a great light has entered into Emma's dark, dark world.

Now she knows why Mary Margaret shines throughout the day like a star, why David is a gentleman to every person he meets.

When Ruth offhandedly mentions that a girl like her will have a hard time of finding a husband, Emma laughs and asks why. Laughter gets passed around to all when she replies that men share a common fear: smart, clever women who are not only beautiful but also terribly outspoken.

Before she departs to return to her lonely one-room cottage, she sadly declines Ruth's proposal that she stay overnight and sleep over... Because she is wishing with all her might that this was her family, that she could stay here forever and never leave.

If only that were true.  _If only._

* * *

"Darn it!" David swears loudly, nursing a red, bruised thumb after his hammer swings the wrong direction. He is currently replacing the wooden tiles on the roof, determined to finish the job before sunset. "If only Killian were here, instead of tending to his ego and hiding away in that secluded glen of his..."

Emma looks up, putting the bucket of soapy water down on the ground. It's her first Saturday here after one whole week of being Storybrooke's schoolteacher. For herself, she has learned that initially, Mary Margaret offered to be the schoolteacher, but she had only experience in watching over some of the younger children and she had never taught anyone in her life. It looks like she was the next best option...

Rolling her eyes, she glances at her handiwork, the outside of the house now gleaming and sparkling. The walls are made of stacked stones covering bricks, so the most that can be done is securing the windows and resealing the edges, replacing that broken door with a new one, and cleaning out the inside. David has kept his promise and visited during the week to start on the outside tasks, little steps leading to an improved chimney  _―_ Emma and Mary Margaret couldn't stop laughing when they saw his woeful, blackened face after tackling the age-old soot monsters inside  _―_ and a better overall exterior. She has been cleaning and cleaning and cleaning while he has been hammering and nailing and pulling apart what must be a centuries old foundation, but David has a good eye and the entire building now actually looks like a house instead of a dump heap.

Presently, she processes her friend's ―  _yes, she wants to be friends with David and Mary Margaret ―_  complaint and dares to ask, "So who's Killian?"

He chuckles in response and says, "No old women gossiping in the street corners have clouded your judgment yet?"

She smiles and shakes her head.

"Well, as you'll soon hear, he is what I call the town's only scapegoat. I swear ― the narrow-minded have nothing better to do than to pick on him, of all people."

"Why ― what has he done?"

David scoffs. "Absolutely nothing. He moved here about five years ago, from the city. Wouldn't say where he's from or what his history is, but he was looking for work and...much like you, he was given a position that most wouldn't be eager to accept."

She half-grins, brushing sweaty hair out of her eyes. "He's the mayor?"

"Very funny, Emma." He sighs. "He's...uh...the lighthouse keeper."

Emma swivels slowly, staring in all directions. "There's a  _lighthouse_  here?"

"Yes...but see, it's far from the center of Storybrooke, and it's very isolated. The path to it is a long hike, and the cottage that's adjoining it is surrounded by nature's wildlife. Not exactly a place you'd want if you're planning on being social. It's also a constant job, making sure the lighthouse is always in order." David groans as he climbs down the ladder. "I mean, who wants to be working all the time?"

"The extra wages probably don't hurt," she comments wryly, double-checking that the handkerchief wrapped around her head is securely keeping her hair dry and dirt-free. It's more difficult to keep herself clean than the damn windowsills...

"True, that," he says with a lopsided grin. Then his expression drops into sadness, sympathy in his eyes. "But that's just it ― Killian doesn't do it for the money ― as little as it is. He pushes himself relentlessly into his tasks and seldom withdraws from them, and let's just say that someone as...unusual as he is has gained more than a few distrusting and jealous glances from some of the townspeople, because they don't understand why he has chosen such a life for himself. They simply believe the rumors and refuse to see the honest man in front of them." Then David suddenly clears his throat and noticeably changes the subject, but Emma doesn't press him for more information about this mysterious man. "Speaking of work, how's the new school going, Emma?"

One brow raised in reply, she hesitates, concentrating instead on helping him lower the bucket of nails that had been resting on the second-to-last rung near the top of the ladder. "It's...well..." She bites her lip and squints at the horizon, the sun blinding her and leaving sunspots in her vision when she finally looks away to gaze back at him. "It's complicated. The children...they're not receptive to what I'm teaching."

He frowns. "If they're misbehaving, I can go to their p―"

"No, it's not that at all," she denies hurriedly. "It's that...they're listening, but not really listening." Rubbing her temples, she tries to explain. "It's that the material I'm supposed to teach them is not sinking in, so to speak. I've used pictures and diagrams and everything imaginable to help them understand and retain what they've heard and seen, but it's...not working."

Emma settles herself on the low fence encircling the property, ignoring the cold feel of the flat stone under her skin. Looking concerned, David sits next to her, his respectful silence encouraging her to continue speaking her thoughts. "I want to teach them what I know, to find so much beyond what they have already through knowledge and reading and discovery. To not be afraid to broaden their views. But I need to reach them first, to have a way to  _connect_  with them. Number and figures and words aren't that way."

"They need more," David punctuates easily, a kindred spirit in her own time of need for understanding.

_Yes, but how to accomplish that..._

* * *

During the next several days after the dreaded first week is over, Emma thinks little of the elusive "Killian" between her new friendships and adjusting to her new routine. Each morning she rises with the dawn, preparing the few books she owns to take with her to the school, scrambling eggs on a pan over the small open stove over the hearth, having breakfast while bemoaning the loss of all those glorious books Graham had. He had proposed she take whatever she wanted, but how would that have worked?

She is more or less a nomad, so carting around boxes full of books would not only be impractical but also impossible... God, she misses her stories. The ancient and the contemporary, musings and narratives, the serious and the humorous. Reading brings sunlight to a rainy day, comfort in a time of grief, flowers in the midst of spring.

She can't even have that, as this wretched hole of a village doesn't have a library.

Most of her students have chores at home to complete or younger siblings to look after, so school begins early and only lasts until lunchtime. After ascertaining that the classroom is in top shape, the remaining hours until dusk are for Emma to do with as she pleases.

Which is why she is now undertaking that most dreaded of errands, something she has always loathed: shopping.

She scans the shelves for the items she needs to purchase, stopping every once in a while to look at something either repulsive or fantastical. Both categories are beyond her expenditure range.

Fortunately, those in charge of the establishment are very nice and helpful. Granny sits behind the counter, yawning after her long night running the local tavern, while Red organizes some parts of the shop that are in slight disarray. Mary's best friend is every inch the lovely lady as well, natural beauty coating her from head to toe. For a girl living in the middle of nowhere, she is dressed impeccably and up to taste with the fashions, attractively vivid but not gaudy. Her personality matches her looks, but while Mary Margaret is very forgiving and maintains her temper well, Red has the fiery eyes and ear of a wolf, never forgetting a slight or wrong move and quite passionate about voicing her opinions on the spot, whether they be positive or negative.

In other words, Emma likes her a lot. After all, honesty and boldness do wonders amid a world full of stuffy, judgmental―

The windchimes hanging above the door jingle merrily as it opens, and from the corner of her eye, Emma can see a cloaked figure slip through.

"Why hello there, stranger," Red greets teasingly, watching as her grandmother disappears into the back of the store. She goes to take her place. "It's been a while since you've been in this neck of the woods." When whoever it is doesn't respond right away, Emma hopes she is well hidden and peeks between the shelves.

When she reflects back, she really wasn't prepared for what she saw.

* * *

The man leaning across the counter, his stance both cocky and self-assured, is without a doubt the handsomest man she has ever seen. From his would-be beard, dark bristle accentuating his strong jawline, to his sharp facial features and elegant physique, he looks like...

A warrior on the prowl, judging by his steady hands and ready feet, muscles tense from being so alert.

A pirate ready to raid, his smirk devilish and very,  _very_  dangerous. The way his lips move speaks of eloquence and wit and charm and intelligence.

He can be a rogue, an adventurer, a scholar. He can be everything and anything.

When his eyes, colored like the sky and the ocean and every bit of water on earth, flicker over various areas of the shop, she decides he might be a spirit of air like in her stories, created by the wind and breathing life into the world around him. Yes, he has that commanding presence, that demand for attention. And it's not just his appearance ― it's  _him_. She can feel that there's more to him than what a mirror would show.

Having not even listened to the words exchanged between him and Red, Emma finds herself with her mouth agape, her hands clenching the edge of the soft wood. If he only notices how she is staring at him...

"―they look fine, but I haven't sold any of the last ones you gave me. Additionally...when customers start asking who made them...it makes selling them... _tricky_ ," Red excused, waving her hands about like she did when she was nervous. Or embarrassed.

His voice feels like velvet against her ears, accented and spicy and smooth. "Ah, I see. Because they're mine ― right, love?"

The girl shrugs, a small, pitying half-smile on her face. "It's not my fault, Killian. You know what this town thinks of you ― well," she snorts, "the nitpickers in it, anyway."

Killian.  _Killian_.

Not that Killian ― the one David defended, the one he spoke of as a friend would. Not the Killian Mary Margaret described in passing just the other day, the tormented artist and former sailor who had no family, no friend, no one. The outcast who is called a daft cripple behind his back, because of his lost left hand. The one who is mocked by the majority of the town, called a coward and a philanderer.

When he turns at the sound of her loud gasp, she recognizes him.  _The rude stranger who she ran into on her way to town._

Slowly, Emma emerges from her hiding spot, clutching at the basket in her hands. Her knuckles have become white from the strain.

"Emma! Ready?" Red seems relieved and apprehensive at the same time, and as for the enigmatic Killian... He is eyeing her up and down, his gaze lingering on certain parts of her. If his perusal were any more heated, it would burn her.

She won't blush.  _She won't._

The counter is wide, but she can almost touch Killian's hip with her own as she takes her stand next to him, placing her purchases on top of the polished plank so Red can count them up. Lying next to his still hand are a bunch of pendants, appearing to be carved of wood and beaded into necklaces.

The silence is downright oppressive, the weight of the man's stare burdening her shoulders and her head and her very bones.  _Damn it_  ― now she has a headache. It doesn't help that her body is reacting in a very particular, very familiar way to his proximity. She thought she had put such foolish wishes behind her in the past, when a certain brown-eyed gentleman had caught her heart and hung it out to dry in the gusts of anguish.

"So..." Red is frantically trying to dispel the tension. "Emma, have you met Killian before?"

Rolling her eyes and sighing deeply, Emma accepts that there's no escaping this. She'll have to look at him. "We've met. Once." She gathers her courage and then sees there's nothing to fear. "You were...in a hurry."

With one brow raised cheekily, he has the most sardonic smile and mischievous gaze she's ever seen. But underneath...there's this hint of hardness, the smallest sign of pain. Pain that he's desperately trying to hide for the sake of everyone present. The fortress of his soul is an impenetrable one, she'd guess, and from the looks of it, he's trapped miserably inside.

"Aye..." His eyes narrow and then widen from recognition. "You're the lass who nearly knocked me to the ground when I was headed down the path last week!"

Emma wants to fling a retort at him. She really does. But she unconsciously searches for the stump that Mary Margaret said repulses all the men and the women too (well, they say they're repulsed...). When she looks at him again, his expression has visibly darkened.

Knowing when to avoid a storm, she ducks her head and nods. "I'm sorry for that. Truly. I had just come to Storybrooke ― and it was very windy that day. I'm Emma Swan."

Red explains, "She's the new schoolteacher."

"Ah." He is still scrutinizing her, but it's evident his mind is elsewhere. Then he awakens from his daze and introduces himself, extending his right hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Miss Swan," he purrs flirtatiously. "I'm Killian Jones. I take care of―"

"―the lighthouse." Emma nods again. When she tentatively gives him her hand, he surprises her by kissing it like a gentleman would...but the feel of his mouth on her skin is doing very unsettling things to her stomach. His fingers caress hers, and she's beside herself.

She wants to get out. To run. To take a step back, away from him. He's trouble. He's out of bounds.

Even though she recalls David's words perfectly and feels sorry, she cannot stay and get better acquainted. She can't do anything but say polite nothings and bid her farewells. She doesn't want such an attractive man anywhere near her, for her safety's sake.

Killian is not what she expected, and now that the flames have licked at her feet, she is dancing around them in an effort to survive. Stranger and stranger he is, because he belongs more to the sea than to fire, smelling of earth and woodland and salty air.

She must look terrified, for he drops her hand almost apologetically, as if he had done something to her. "Uh...how much do I owe you?" she directs at Red.

Taking out a ledger, she scribbles something down. "No worries, Emma ― I put it on your account until you get your first wages from the council. Granny won't mind."

Murmuring her thanks and her goodbyes, Emma glances at Killian, who is staring at her once more. He is puzzled and transfixed and  _broken_  ― so, so broken, that it's a dagger to her heart, reminding her of herself.  _It hurts...it all hurts so much..._

The last thing she hears before the door closes shut is his whispered "I'll be seeing you around,  _Swan_."

* * *


	3. Lonely Is My Heart

_When Robin invited her to the ball, she really had no intentions of attending. She decided ― adamantly ― that she would make up some worthy excuse and stay at home with the children, burrowing in her bed and reading some daring book._

_Needless to say, that plan didn't work at all._

_Its failure is the reason why she is sitting here, dressed in some absurd light, puffy blue gown. Simple white gloves, curled hair, and heeled slippers ― she has missed nothing, trying to look her best so she won't embarrass her employer._

_The man himself is somewhere in the corner of the ballroom, having his fiancé and a bevy of business acquaintances and his group of close friends. They are talking merrily and laughing loudly, and Emma knows from Robin's bright smile that he's very happy._

_Regina... Not so much. She looks a bit disgruntled by her audience, but when Robin notices her discomfort and tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow, she positively glows, and Emma has every reason to believe that the woman's answering smile is fully genuine._

_The one she herself has plastered on her face like a painted doll reeks of boredom and unease. She's always hated being in a crowd, feeling exposed and, if she's being honest with herself, a bit neglected._

" _Some party," comes an all-too familiar sneer from her left._

_Looking up, she sees Neal decked out in a classic suit. In moments like these, he doesn't look like a servant at all. In fact, neither of them do. For a second, he is a gentleman and she is a lady, not the stable boy and the governess thrust into a world that they clearly don't belong to. A world where fine clothes and rich brandy and meaningless talk pervade the fancy mansions and fur-lined pockets of the well-to-do. Where money is more important than virtue, where who you are becomes what you are, where status exceeds stature ― not the other way around._

" _Yes, it's really something, isn't it?" she finally breathes out, her hands delicately placed in her lap in the style of a proper lady's._

_Neal smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets. "It's really...monotonous, if you ask me. The same thing over and over again, like on a cheap stage. Same actors, same lines, same faces, same act. Nothing's new."_

_She can't help but smile at that, seeing exactly what he does. They are so alike that it's not even amusing anymore. Instead, it's wonderful and exciting and terrifying―_

_He interrupts her thoughts. "It's your first time at one of these, isn't it?"_

_She ducks her head, recalling how the nuns would take all the girls at the school out for brief excursions, not wanting to encourage any unnecessary seclusion. "My first ball, yes. My first outing, no."_

" _I see." He bites his lip momentarily, seeming to be internally debating something, before he straightens and steps forward so that he is facing her. His hand is outstretched, reaching for her. "Care to dance?"_

" _What?" She peers around and doesn't notice any other of the staff joining in the activities. "I don't think we're allowed, Neal."_

_He loudly snorts, still offering his hand to her. "Then let's break tradition." His warm smile melts her inhibitions and sends a shiver through her heart. "Come on ― dance with me, Emma."_

_She's learned how to waltz and all that, but when he sweeps her into his arms and glides with her across the smooth waxed floor, their feet seem to fly across the polished stone. And when he twirls her about, she cares less what everyone else thinks. She disregards Robin's surprised stare, Regina's intrigued glances, the whole of society's scorn. She doesn't wonder how a man who's worked all his life ever found the time to learn how to waltz._

_In that instant, when she's safe yet free, embraced by a man who treats her as his equal and his friend, she realizes that this is so much more than a mere dance or a means of slighting the pride of the privileged._

_Against her will, she's falling in love with him._

* * *

Emma can't figure it out, but she keeps running into Killian Jones more than is coincidentally possible. Being a recluse, she would think he would be more... _reclusive_. David said the man was basically hiding out in his house near the sea cliffs, but she could be turning past a street corner, finding the pebbled path leading to the small docks that constituted the town harbor, or browsing the display windows of the few shops in business ― and there he would be, traipsing through the village, seemingly going in the same direction for other purposes.

Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't, but that doesn't justify why he has taken it upon himself to gaze at her as if she has just dropped down from the moon to pay earth a visit.

Shaking her head from exasperation, Emma clucks her tongue disapprovingly when she notices Killian's lanky shadow reaching her from across the street, meaning that he is again striding in time with her. When she complained once to Mary Margaret, the girl would only smile and say, "It's a small town." David was much worse, suggesting that the lighthouse keeper just might like her ― and he emphasized his masculine analysis with a dramatic, charming smile and wink.

She doesn't believe either explanation, even though both are highly plausible. And if she's being truly honest with herself, it has to do with one thing: she doesn't like Killian or his attitude. She will admit that he's very handsome and probably affable if he puts his mind to it, but his tendency to usually imitate Lord Byron, if only in spirit, is getting on her nerves whenever their paths cross.

Her arms hugging her chest, she peers at Killian from under her eyelashes and decides that the cloud of broodiness constantly hanging over his head never dissipates, no matter the weather or the company he trudges by. The one adjective she can think of is  _morbid_. But now that she's charted out his moods and behavior from a distant perspective (in other words, her first impression of him, to the best of her ability), today appears to be the day that all of her assumptions are proven wrong.

There goes David, whistling cheerily as he walks up toward them, his eyes fixed on the ground ― and then he looks up. Emma moves to approach him, already preparing for a conversation and  _et cetera_...but while Mary Margaret's fiancé briefly acknowledges her presence, his attention is focused entirely on Killian.

She feels ignored in an instant when he goes right to her would-be admirer, but no one notices her crestfallen face.

They act like they've known each other for years and years. Their camaraderie is visible even from afar: David is slapping Killian on the shoulder, and Killian is grinning broadly, his expression exuding friendliness and genuine happiness. They're like brothers as they jest back and forth, talking animatedly and gesturing occasionally as the topics shift. For the first time, Jones looks like a whole person instead the shattered ghost that tried to flirt with her in Red's store.

That is why Emma doesn't stop, doesn't even attempt to join in and be included in their circle. She knows what it is to be invisible, to be excluded, and while it's understandable that David would speak first to his friend that he hasn't seen for weeks, it still hurts that he wouldn't care about her being there too.

As if she weren't there at all.  _Nobody ever cares about me._

Averting her gaze, she wraps her arms closer about her, the wind tugging on her hair, and plows onward, wishing for hot soup and blankets and shuttered windows, her little house now a selfish haven she can run to.

Her pace quickens when she hears David or Killian ― she can't tell who ― call out what could be her name, and she refuses to turn back, determined to leave.

She's so tired of being second-best with everyone in her life, but it's her fate, from the looks of it, and she has to deal with it with as much dignity as she can muster.

That doesn't mean she has to like any of it.

* * *

_Another dinner at Ruth's, and Emma is settling into a lovely routine where three people seem to really care about her well-being. She's never found such kindness among strangers, and as for her former friends...well, they changed with the weather._

_Smiling as she hears Mary Margaret converse with David's mother, who is sitting on her rocking chair and knitting a scarf, Emma takes charge of the dirty dishes this time and quickly makes work of them, eventually humming to keep her mind occupied._

_She is startled when David sidles up next to her and offers to dry, but they do well and are finished with the chore before she can hum her tune twice._

" _So," he starts apathetically, "when will your family be coming to visit?"_

_Emma stiffens immediately at the mere mention of the raw, adulterated subject, but then she accepts that he is only asking because he is concerned for her. She's the one who has been complaining recently about loneliness and how it makes a person see the future all too clearly._

" _I, um, am not expecting anyone," she replies after a few minutes of silence, wrapping the wet dishcloth over its designated drying pole. When David gives her a curious look, she softly clarifies, "I don't have any family."_

_The pain in her tone must have warded him away from asking any more questions about her history, because David only says, "Oh," and turns his head._

_She sighs, but then that breath of relief is short-lived when he pipes up and comments absently, "You know, Killian was asking about you just the other afternoon..."_

_If she were still holding a dish in her hands, it would have clattered to the floor._

* * *

The next evening, after a rather strenuous day of teaching, Emma is sitting quietly in front of the fireplace, staring past her clean laundry and re-organized goods, meditating on what might have been and what had been, her memories painting winsome pictures before her, their edges touched by the flames. Stars are blinking at her outside her tiny windows, a sign that night has inevitably come, and slowly, painfully, she pulls a handful of letters from the inside of her suitcase, all encased in ribbons and broken wax seals.

She finds one that she remembers very well, the last epistle that Neal ever sent to her. His scrawls are remarkably beautiful and elegant, and she marvels how she did not see it from the beginning, how different he was from everyone else in Locksley's household. " _Dearest Emma_ ," it reads, " _I have wanted for so long―_ "

Then someone knocks ― rather insistently, too ― and interrupts her sad musings.

Flustered at her nonchalant appearance and informal apparel, rubbing harshly at her treacherous wet eyes and nose with her handkerchief, Emma grabs the nearest shawl and nearly trips over her own feet on her way to the door.

It's David, and surprise of surprises, a rather shy Killian beside him, pointedly glancing down at his feet and looking very nervous. The lighthouse keeper is dressed all in black, worn leather and flannel intermixing to make him bold and stylish, his left arm tucked behind his back in hiding. In fact, he looks...very  _nice_. On the other hand, the shepherd is in his normal attire, brown trousers and white shirt covered by his thick fleece coat. As usual.

"Hello, Emma," David greets cheerfully, giving her a wide smile. Killian just rubs at the back of his neck with his good hand, his embarrassment showing. Though it's quite dark, she can tell that he's blushing.

"Good evening, David." She doesn't lessen her hold on the door. "What can I do for you?"

"I've ― well, we've come to rescue you."

She is very confused now, and she must look how she feels, because poor David is stumbling over his words. "Uh ― well, that is to say ― didn't she ― Mary Margaret  _didn't_  invite you over for dinner tonight?"

 _Oh darn_. She forgot. Burying her head in the well of her deepest troubles, she had not bothered to mull over the day's events, the market chatter between her and her friend dimming in the background. "Oh." Emma chews on her tongue, trying to come up with a polite way to rectify this horrible  _faux pas_. "David, I apologize, but..." She sighs in defeat, realizing that she is still holding the letter in her hand. "I won't be able to come tonight."

Killian's head snaps up suddenly, his brow furrows, and his eyes narrow. "It's not bad news, I hope?" he rasps, his worried gaze burning a hole into the piece of paper she's treasuring, flickering between that and her face. She instantly drops it on the floor.

She doesn't want to look at him, and she makes a point not to answer him. At this moment, with her ache so fresh and tender to the touch, she wants nothing more than for him to disappear ― he and his stealthy, following, annoying habits. But he disregards how she purses her lips in dismay, bending over to retrieve the fallen article and to hand it tentatively to her. She nods her thanks, still not meeting his line of sight.

David, however... A stab of guilt pricks her heart when she sees his disappointed frown, and she hastens to excuse herself. "I forgot that I promised Mary Margaret ― please, give her my apologies." She breathes in deeply, gulping in as much air as possible in order to hold back the tears balancing on the corners of her eyelids when her name, written in Neal's cursive, comes into view again. "Besides, I've already eaten, and I wouldn't be a good guest―"

He's kindly when he proposes, "You can still come, Emma, food or not ― why, I've been so occupied at the farm lately that I haven't had the chance to spend as much time with Mary Margaret as I ought to. Killian here ― he'll be coming as well, and I'm sure he'd welcome your company very much..."

She swallows hard, salt and water running down her throat. She knows what this is, can recall the same words and lines spoken to her by many. The reason Mary Margaret had invited her to her own house, not Ruth's, was because she and David were planning on inviting Killian from the beginning and most likely had done so before they asked her.

It's a safe presumption that they could be trying to push her and him together. Why not?  _Those that are broken cannot belong to a whole, after all._

The glance Killian furtively bestows on her isn't arrogant or ablaze at all. No, it's sheepish and timid and, underneath all the pessimism,  _hopeful_. He actually  _wants_  this, for her to agree. She can read it in his eyes, and because her instincts are always true, he isn't lying.

She had been wrong before.  _She is always wrong, about everything..._

Emma wants to go. She really does, even if being so close to Killian for the remainder of the evening is going to make her very,  _very_  uncomfortable. But images from the past are looming behind her, locked within that tiny room, and as much as she wants to escape from them, part of her heart is comforted by the good moments that she remembers, despite the bad ones.

It's a raging torrent, these thoughts, and she trembles under their combined weight. "I just can't," she finally whispers in response, watching Killian's face fall hard and David's gaze sadden all in one blow. Unable to say anymore, choking on a muffled sob, she slowly closes the door in front of them, blocking out light that would drive away the shadows.

After she hears their footfalls and murmurs eventually recede from her doorstep, a torrent of ungodly noises pour from her mouth and she's cringing on the ground, rocking to and fro on her heels while covering her eyes with her hands.

She misses the past more than she hates it, and that truth hurts more than anything else.

* * *

The next time she's in the supply store, it's right after her monthly stipend is due. The council has been very strict, counting down to the very last cent, but Emma is happy that she has been paid at all. Her students are restless and rebellious, but when she lectures them, they make an effort to sit up straight and listen to her, and that must count for something. Still, she would like to know for certain that at least some part of her teaching is getting through to them.

Red is dusting the shelves and Granny is nowhere in sight. Emma hurries through her purchases, hunting down milk and flour and soap and the small items she can barely afford to buy, preparing her money by the counter as the wolf-girl tallies the sale price.

Just as she's about to hand out the correct number of coins, she spots wood and seashells moving with the soft wind trickling through the windows, hanging on a small stand by the register. They sway back and forth, and she's mesmerized by the reflecting colors, the simple but beautiful designs. In her mind, she chooses the one she likes best, argues with her inner self that it's alright to spend a little on her vanity from time to time, and solidifies that decision when she takes out the amount needed to acquire one.

"I'll take one of those pendants as well," she announces, despising that her voice comes out as an embarrassed squeak.

Red gives her a piercing look. "You do know who made it, right?"

She nods once.

"And you still want to―?"

Now Emma's the one to glare. "Yes," she growls out rather rudely (well, that how she hears herself), grabbing the particular pendant she likes best and slamming the allotted money down on the table. To her credit, Red only crooks a brow expressively and says nothing more, a knowing smirk on her lips.

Emma's wearing her new piece of "jewelry" the moment she's out the door, perfectly carved swan and small blue stones hanging easily around her neck.

Proudly flaunting it, she also turns her nose up at the old women at the street corner who mutter derisively when she passes by them, ignoring their thin whispers of gossip and their silly ogling.

In her opinion, they should get over their prejudice and live their own lives. Godless sinner or not, Killian Jones made this pendant with his bare hand, and for the record, it's an absolutely breathtaking, meticulous work of art.

She never goes anywhere without it from that day on.

* * *

It would be an obvious lie to say that she doesn't miss David and Mary Margaret. Ever since she declined their dinner invitation because of her sudden state of mourning and her rather rude rejection of Killian, she hasn't seen much of either of them, and it hurts inside. Maybe she's being too self-absorbed, but her friendly couple have been very considerate to her, helping her find her way around and accustom herself to a new place.

And, she tells herself rather begrudgingly, Killian really hasn't done anything wrong that she should be avoiding him so readily.

In spite of her better judgment, she keeps doing it nonetheless ― ducking into darkened alcoves between buildings when she sees him emerge from the main path, making a note of the stores he visits, always keeping an eye on her surroundings and who's present in them.

If anyone knew why, she would be quite mortified to admit the reason behind her new behavior.

She reminds herself that  _he_  started it, this growing fixation that included his leers and frequent appearance in her vicinity. So she promises herself that she will end it, one way or another.

One afternoon, when class is dismissed and she has no chores to do or duties to fulfill, she sees the sun shining down gleefully and makes the impulsive choice to head down to the seashore. The atmosphere of the quiet, tight-knit, oppressive Storybrooke has gotten on her nerves so much lately that she can't bear it anymore, and with a picnic basket in one hand and her sketchbook in the other, Emma stomps down the sandy trail to descend to the water's edge. And there's no Killian in sight.

* * *

She gathers a few seashells. She trails her bare toes in the ocean lapping at the shoreline and yelps when the shock of the icy water gives her chills, yanking on her stockings as soon as she's able to. She lies down in full view of the sun, warming her skin and her disposition at the same time.

Some might say it's scandalous for a single, unmarried woman like herself to be out alone, unattended and with her legs splayed across the golden sand. She cares less and takes comfort in the lulling waves and calming sounds of birds calling out, the heavens meeting the earth, the silence that isn't eerie but consoling.

She loves it here, and she doesn't want to leave.

When Emma convinces herself to get up from her roosting spot and explore some more, she discovers an old abandoned dinghy tied to a decaying log. Being extremely stubborn and bored and more determined that necessarily reasonable, she drags the expired nautical contraption to the water, set on climbing in and sailing for a bit.

It certainly doesn't work out that way.

* * *

Firstly, she knew that there were no oars present to speak of, but when she's actually in the boat and it's miraculously not leaking, she learns through hardship that using a long piece of rough wood is not the same as a carved, polished device meant for navigation.

Secondly, there is no sail, the rudder breaks completely apart on her second try to control it, and the makeshift oar is rapidly torn from her hands and disappears faster than she can react.

Thirdly, she is uninformed about the time of the rising tide, but the waves are becoming higher and more violent the longer she sails in this wretched wooden implement.

When water spills inside and she gets soaked, feeling the boat become very heavy and start to sink under makes Emma panic instantly, and she's almost screeching as she fails to propel the hull in the direction of the beach. She's getting farther and farther away from land, she doesn't know how to swim, she's getting very cold from her wet clothes, and worst of all, no one is aware of her little misadventure―

The next few minutes fly by a little too fast for her to fully comprehend.

Between her cries for help, her refusal to leave the boat, and her flailing limbs, a pair of strong arms pull her out and guide her through the water, holding her close and not letting go. He's soothing her with repeated directions, telling her to keep her head above the waves and kick her legs, his breath fanning her cheek, his nearness bringing her warmth―

When they collapse onto the sand, she takes a moment to recollect herself, gasping and coughing nonstop. She sits up on her elbows, and her eyes open gradually.

Her gaze lands on none other than Killian Jones, who is sputtering and gagging seawater. His hair and clothing are drenched, and she gapes at how the latter adheres to his skin, outlining some things that were better left undefined...

Realizing her mouth is going dry, she shakes herself from her prolonged staring and inquires if he is alright. He confirms that he is, wrings some droplets from the tails of his shirt, and then crawls over to her, scrutinizing her form. He looks anxious and distracted before his stance relaxes and he is assured she is uninjured, but that doesn't stop him from directing what she thinks is concern over her safety into exasperation at her foolishness.

"What were you thinking, woman, testing the bloody waves in that flimsy piece of goddamned driftwood? Why test fate and the sea's mercy ― you could have drowned! And if I hadn't―"

She involuntarily tunes out his voice, passionately irate and melodic as it is, and focuses instead on how sleek his moistened dark curls are, the lines of his face accentuated up close, his mouth reddened from the frigid air―

When she hears nothing and thinks that his tantrum is over, she finds herself being wrapped in his arms again, and then they're moving.

"Let me down!" she insists, struggling weakly in his embrace.

This time he's the one to roll his eyes. Wordlessly, he hefts her up to get a good, tight grip on her body as he carries her away. "Just be quiet and enjoy the ride, love. We've got a ways to go yet."

When he nearly stumbles on his third step, she clutches at his shirt desperately. They are inches apart, noses nearly brushing, eyes meeting reluctantly. He is staring at her lips, and she is following the movement of his wandering tongue as it licks over his teeth, and the heat is rising...and it has nothing to do with the sunlight.

She whimpers softly when the back of his hand slowly caresses her jawline ― but he groans from the added weight pressing on his arms, and their mutual trance is broken.

Nevertheless, she leans into him, resting her face near his neck so that the top of her head is tucked under his chin, and he shuffles slightly before sauntering once more, careful of where he places his feet.

They don't say another word to each other until they reach her door, but all the while, she can feel his heart beneath her cheek, pounding wildly and erratically.

And for the first time since making his acquaintance, she smiles.


	4. Temptation

As she shivers, her wet garments increasingly unpleasant against her skin, Emma can't stop watching Killian's every movement. It's not simply his unusual good looks, wet dark hair swept over his forehead and trim figure striding lithely around her home as his striking eyes glance at her more often than not. Even the way he bends over to place several logs in her fireplace, the flourishing gesture he uses to light a precious match and deposit it quickly amongst the wood ― it speaks of grace and strength.  _Both of which he just used to save her life._

The awkward silence, however, is starting to make her squirm in her seat.  _She should say something._ "Thank you," she breaks through uncertainly, "for being a gentleman and saving me. It was a...noble gesture."

He smirks, but the smile on his lips doesn't really reach his eyes. "Oh, I'm always a gentleman, love."

Still, the manner in which he brushes off her gratitude ― and she senses he knows  _exactly_  how hard it is for her to thank anyone ― is rubbing Emma the wrong way. Biting her bottom lip, she dares to proceed and voice her thoughts. "I, uh, understand, but you didn't have to save me, and―"

"But I did." His gaze is now glazed with fire. "Because I wanted to. Because I wanted to  _help you_. God, do you value your life so little, that you judge others also share in your conviction that you are worthless?"

His words are whiplash against her ears, but in her heart, she knows that what he is saying has truth in it. Nevertheless, she finally looks down at the ground, wanting to escape his perusal. And though she feels the need to respond, no right retorts form in her mind.

So she stares at the fireplace instead, ignoring his question. It's much easier to hide her shock at his honesty and how he has seen through her than to probe at it.

_He can't care about her. He barely knows her. He doesn't like her. He can't._

"You really need to change out of those wet clothes, love."

She can't believe what she is hearing at first, but on second thought, his advice makes sense and has merit. The problem is that he is just standing there, staring at her, expecting her to get up and act on it. Crossing her arms over her chest protectively, she huffs and says, "I'm not doing anything when you're here."

A single moment passes afterwards, giving her enough time to process her choice of words and the sudden look of deep hurt on his face before it becomes simply impassive.

"Well then...I'll just let myself out then," he replies, bowing slightly before he heads toward the door.

When water leaves a steady trail over the polished wood, she leaps from her chair and hastens to his side, instinctively grabbing at his arm to prevent him from touching the doorknob. "No ― wait ― I didn't mean it like that ―"

"I may have lost my hand, Swan, but I still have my sight, and I can damn well see when a lady needs her privacy. I can see," he whispers more aggressively, more forcefully, more deeply, "where and when I'm not  _wanted_."

It is her turn to burn ― but this time from embarrassment and regret. Damn it, couldn't he tell that she was still ashamed of her foolish notion, her current situation,  _her inexplicable attraction to him_...? "No, no," she denies, wringing her hands and then stopping when she notices how desperate it makes her look, "I don't want you to go. Please don't. You're," she glances at his soaking wet shirt and trousers, "you're dripping water on my floor."

He smirks without mirth. "Well pardon me, lass, for ruining your fine décor―"

" _Would you just listen for a moment?_ " She nearly loses her patience with him, but a heavy sigh and a close of her eyes later, she's prepared. "If you go out in those clothes, you'll catch your death. At least...stay and warm yourself by the fire." She blushes during her next offer. "I, um, don't have any gentleman attire on hand, but I can give you a blanket, and your garments can dry next to mine..."

Her cheeks feel like they are literally on fire, her mouth is exceedingly dry, and when he only raises an eyebrow at her in return, she bites her bottom lip anxiously and calls herself simple-minded. Then she sees her fingers gently curling over his arm. His left arm. The one that's missing a particular attachment. But she doesn't pull away. The loss doesn't frighten her. No, loss doesn't mean  _less_  ― it means  _more_. It means survival and fortitude and ―  _God, he's gazing down and up, his eyes flickering between her hand and her face._

Emma repeats her invitation, wanting him to understand. To know...that  _she_  understands. "Killian Jones, stop being stubborn," she whispers as teasingly as she can under the circumstances. If she says the wrong thing, it will drive him away from her. "I'm asking you...to stay. Don't go just yet. Please." The last word is so much more than a plea, though, and while she's not begging, she's doing more than mere  _asking_.

He cocks his head at her, still unsure, but slowly, when she tentatively strokes her fingers over his skin, an answering smile makes its journey on his lips, and she could swear that she's never seen such a warmth emanate from his face before. Well, in the limited days and weeks that she's known him. His hand leaves the door immediately, and she's leading him by the arm to the badly cushioned armchair in the corner, requesting that he wait a minute so she can place a thick towel down before he sits. He complies, pretending to peer up at the ceiling while she senses his smolder from across the room.

Naturally, her clumsiness comes through to vex her, and as she walks to where he is, fluffy fabric in hand, the toe of her boot gets caught under the old rug serving as a carpet, and she only saves herself from falling flat by reaching for the nearest solid object. That happens to be a startled Killian, who takes the impact bravely but lands behind-first in the chair, and when she has settled her flailing arms well enough to plant both hands on opposite armrests, she realizes just why the man in front of her is appearing very uncomfortable. Or should she say, very  _attentive_  to her every move.

Her body is, more or less, suspended over his, her forehead nearly brushing his as her new position affords her such scandalous proximity. But he is still waiting, and when his eyes draw attention to her mouth again, fear builds in her stomach, making her gasp. Of all that he can't want from her, he most certainly can't want  _that_  from her.  _Can't he?_ , her conscience prompts back.

Trying to grin confidently, she presents him with the towel she promised. However, when he takes it, their fingers touch, and she's sure she can commiserate with those who were rumored to have died of internal combustion. His gaze softens, and it is then that she admits to herself how she wants to lean in the rest of the way, to not retract the longing that is flowing freely through her.

But, adhering to common sense and a fleeting image of Neal in her mind, she doesn't. Carefully drawing back, she breathes a sigh of relief when she finally makes it behind the thick changing screen, welcoming the seclusion and invisibility.

Why is it that he fills the emptiness so, that he leaves her tingling with hope and trust and all those emotions and wishes she locked in her past? Why is it that he seems to belong amid her living space, his presence strangely comforting and reassuring?

If she is not cautious, she will grow attached to him, because despite her misgivings, she likes how all this feels. She likes how he makes her house feel like a home ― a  _real_  home. Smiling to herself, Emma shakes her head as she puzzles over her mixed feelings toward Killian, slipping off her damp blouse and petticoats until she is dressed only in her corset. The only conclusion she can draw is...that it's not so lonely anymore with him here.

* * *

Her musings are cut short when she tugs at the bow keeping the bindings together, horror running through her when she pulls and pulls to no avail. Damn it, the ties must have formed an impenetrable knot ― and how on earth is she going to undo it when she can't see it, let alone reach it?

Eventually, she succumbs to the only plausible solution. "Killian?"

"Aye?" comes his strong brogue.

"Could you, ahem, come here for a moment?" The answering silence makes her chuckle unhappily. "I...need your help." After audible rustling and some clatter, his footfalls echo and she begins to tremble, grabbing the robe that is lying on the top of the screen and quickly putting it on.

He clears his throat awkwardly. "How may I be of assistance, milady?"

She almost wants to laugh at his bashful politeness. Is he actually as much of a flirt as she ruled him to be, or is he only like that around  _her_? Nevertheless, her sense of humor grows sombre, and she focuses on the task at hand. "My stays are knotted tight."

She hears him swallow hard. "And you wish for me to...take care of that hindrance, correct?"

Closing her eyes, she reluctantly emerges from behind her stiff curtain of protection, trying not to meet his questioning gaze. Turning around, she says softly, "I would greatly appreciate it."

When she slips off her robe minimally, he breathes in sharply, and they both are unable to move. Then she feels his fingertips graze her spine, and his thumbs stroke the skin there repeatedly as he tugs at the knot. Accidental or not, the gentle contact makes her heart beat all too fast meanwhile. As for Killian, he curses unintelligibly several times, but finally, he announces, "Done," and she's accordingly loosening the offensive garment she loathes to wear.

She realizes a second too late that the man is still standing behind her, watching.

" _Emma_ ," he groans when her robe slips to the floor along with the corset. Flushing deeply, she covers herself with her arms as best she can, grateful for the fact that it is her back facing him and not her front. She is now only in her shift and this is highly inappropriate and  _God, why does she have to be so, so stupid_ ―

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I ― I forgot. And it...that  _thing_  was hurting me. I hate it."

His laugh sounds unmistakably forced, but he bends over and grabs her robe, elegantly draping it over her shoulders. His hand, warm and kind, stirs her inside, and holding on to her remaining courage with the will of a lion, she swivels, wanting to see him.

She's still not entirely covered ― not as proper ladies ought to be, with collars up to their neck and skirts down to their ankles ― but she doesn't care. All she can care about is that Killian Jones has this shy, embarrassed expression on his face that rapidly transforms into one of unadulterated hunger. It's familiar, this pure desire, his eyes following the contours of her limbs, analyzing her curves, studying her face. She can feel the heat he is exuding, just as she had on the beach, but this time, she is visibly showing her reaction. A thin piece of cotton cloth is the one item separating him from her naked form, and though she should feel more ashamed than before ― she should be mortified, actually ― she is mirroring the same desire, a fact which makes her blush deeply and sigh.

She could take comfort in him, his body, his sympathy. She could forget about propriety and  _doing the right thing_  and being a lady. This night, she could be his. It would be so easy, so simple...to give in. The notion both thrills and terrifies her, for though she may have fallen in love once, she has never been with a man. A few kisses and touches here and there, but no further. It's not her, to want such physical closeness with anyone, to be enticed by any man in such a wanton manner.

But Killian is so handsome and willing, hovering over her and looking so concerned and full of yearning. Although he makes no advances, his lips are parted, and his head dips down, tilting ever so slightly. One kiss, and he could be hers tonight. For people as passionate as they, it wouldn't stop after one touch ― not when they are both hurting inwardly, needing the aches of the past to be soothed. Perhaps...perhaps they need each other...

Lust flees when she sees him shiver and recalls that he's still wet. Instantly, the tension between them is broken. "Oh," she says suddenly, wrapping her robe about her more securely and outstretching her hand to him, beckoning him to take her place. "You need to change."

He licks his lips slowly, his bright eyes not leaving hers. "Aye, I do," he murmurs, taking her hand in his and pressing a kiss on top of it, all while staring at her pointedly. It's like their first meeting all over again.

She can't help but grin. "Your  _clothes,_ " she corrects, her smile widening on seeing the extent of his misunderstanding.

He chuckles from realization. "Indeed," he replies, his brow furrowing for a moment. "I'd forgotten."

Stepping back, she turns around and strides toward her wardrobe, muttering to herself, "I'll go and...get you that blanket." Rummaging in her cupboards, she finds one for him and another for herself, placing his over the top of the changing screen.

On hearing noise indicating that he is undressing, she averts her sight from that direction and instead contemplates their near indiscretion, wondering if he will pursue it again or hold it against her later.

* * *

Emma peeks at him again and quickly looks away when he catches her glancing at him. The sight of Killian Jones wrapped from head to toe in her white cashmere blanket, one of the most precious objects she owns, is something she will not be forgetting anytime soon. His hair is tufted and most resembles a bird's nest at this point, but she can't help smiling at the childish way he is cuddling into the blanket, pressing his nose to it at times and inhaling deeply. When he meets her inquiring stare, he ducks his face farther into the fabric, looking straight ahead at the fire. Truth be told, his boyish behavior is adorable beyond words.

The simple clothes rack is currently stretching his trousers, his shirt, his belt, her dress, and her undergarments before the flaming heat. When she asked if he would be drying his long johns as well, he only gave her a very cocky smirk and didn't reply.

It's a safe guess that he is not wearing anything underneath her blanket, and the very image of that is making Emma flush. The circumstances and their consequences should be making her cry from shame, really, but Killian is being a gentleman, refraining from commentary on their attire's shared space, and in the light of their companionship, she doesn't want to ruin the quiet atmosphere they've built. They are sitting on the rug, backs set against the bottom of the crude settee, the fireplace right in front of them.

"It smells like honeysuckle."

She raises a brow, confused.

He clears his throat and explains, "The blanket ― it smells like that flower."

"Um..." How will she get around that story? "Yes...it's my favorite scent. What you're smelling is my perfume."

"A schoolteacher has perfume?" He grins lazily. "How unusual."

She rolls her eyes. "It was a gift ― from a friend."

"Ah." He shifts enough so that he is facing her. "A very rich friend, no doubt, to afford such a gift."

"Not exactly," she huffs, getting annoyed with his insinuations. "The lady who gave it to me...well, she was...very fond of me."

"Oh," he exclaims warily, acknowledging the pensive quality of her voice and therefore not carrying that discussion about the past anymore. Emma is relieved ― but it is short-lived, for he remarks on yet another subject best left alone.

"I see that you're wearing one of my pendants."

She peers down at it and makes an effort not to react the same towards its maker. How is she supposed to respond to his query, when she herself cannot grasp what possessed her to buy it? The lines of the swan are fluent and precise; the head itself has minute details and symmetry. The entire necklace, from the choice of beads and stones to the color of the wood used for the swan, is exquisite.

Wetting her lips, she opens her mouth to reply, but no words come out. How can she describe her feelings, when she is barely willing to let them show ― or let them exist?

"How fitting," he comments absently, "that you have chosen your namesake." His bare arm snakes out from between the edges of his covering and his fingers trace the contours of the figurine wistfully. Her collarbone is left untouched by his wanderings, however.

Instead of answering that, she speaks out what she shouldn't say, unable to retreat with her thoughts when he is so near beside her. "It's strange, being here like this with you." He stiffens, immobile, and she elaborates, "No ― I mean ― like  _this_. You and me, here in this house. Alone. Our wet garments hanging side by side." She giggles, and it surprises her. She hasn't giggled since she was with Henry and Roland. "It's...odd circumstances, don't you agree?"

His grim frown becomes a hesitant smile, and his stern expression relaxes. "Aye...I did imagine us alone under other, more... _pleasurable_  circumstances. The clothes part...I don't mind so much." He crooks an eyebrow at her and that smile is now a wide smirk, but the comical way he reacts to his own statement makes her laugh, not brew angrily.

"Why did you really save me?" she asks suddenly, needing to know the truth. "I was so certain...that no one was around."

His hand meets her again, but he is gently rubbing an errant curl of hers between his fingertips, the gesture too innocent to be reprimanded. "Keeping an eye on me, darling?" Her pout curbs that train of suggestive thinking. "Well...to be frank, I was already on the beach before you arrived ― though I was farther along the shoreline, almost out of sight. I didn't see you at first. Then..." His thumb drifts to her cheek, stroking it. She finds she doesn't mind that at all. "Then, there you were, sailing among the waves, and when you started screaming like a bloody harpy, I knew I would just have to bloody jump in and save you." He finishes by withdrawing his hand from her and shrugging nonchalantly.

"I didn't scream like a harpy!" she cries indignantly. When she sees how he is biting his bottom lip to restrain his laughter, she exhales deeply. "I didn't...I don't know what you think of me, but I didn't intentionally mean to be reckless by doing that. It was an accident. I just wanted..." She looks at him pleadingly. "I wanted, for one moment, to feel free."

He gazes at her intently. "And I wanted for you not to be claimed by the sea, Swan. Why can't you believe," he breathed, "that I simply didn't want anything to happen to you?"

Attraction is fiery and piercing. Feeling, on the other hand, works slowly and mysteriously, a wave of calm or a wave of grief or a wave of caring that sweeps through and demonstrates how different the affected person has become because of it. Right now, Emma is floating on a wave of warmth that settles her entire being and reminds her of who she is, how far she has come. That nothing is wasted, no experience for naught.

Somehow, Killian Jones has single-handedly reached into her heart and encouraged it to keep beating.

Somehow, she has found one good reason for being here in Storybrooke.

* * *

The fire has died out during the night, though the cinders are still glowing. The room is covered in darkness, as sunlight doesn't reach the house until mid-morning, and there is condensed silence throughout.

Nevertheless, she feels contentedly warm and snug, her face buried in soft comfort, her nose tickled by a familiar sweet scent.

Wait.

Honeysuckle.

And... _rum_?

Her eyelids flutter until her eyes are fully open, and she gapes at what she sees. Killian's head is nestled in the crook of her neck, and their bodies are partly entwined as he cuddles with her, blanket still enfolded around him ― they must have fallen asleep and curled next to each other because of the cold. She is wrapped in his arms, and to be honest, it's  _wonderful_.

Beautifully wonderful, because not even Neal gave her something as simple as an embrace when she needed it ― he wasn't really a "no strings attached" kind of man ― and Killian is unapproachable but clearly more compassionate than she bargained for.

His right wrist is exposed, and for the first time she sees a colorful tattoo there. The name "Milah" is scrawled there, and because a heart lies next to it, she can guess that that woman was a special part of his life. One of his secrets, perhaps ― like Neal is hers. Secret loves and secret wounds. She wonders what happened to Milah, because Killian is alone. Smiling wistfully at his antics, she gently disentangles from him and before she stands up, she plants a soft kiss on his cheek. She hears him sigh in reply, still dreaming. Well, she won't wake him.

Their garments are very stiff and unpleasant feeling, but dry nonetheless. She presses and folds Killian's articles of clothing, places them in an organized stack, and sets them on a chair by the door. Pulling a simple sundress from her wardrobe, she washes her face and hands, uninterested in her reflection, and then fixes her hair and remaining clothes. Stoking the fire, she brings heat and light again to the room. She hums as she dances across the floor, tidying up her house.

Then when she's finished and after another glance at a sleeping Killian, she goes to prepare breakfast, for once anticipating the dawn.


	5. No Ever Afters

"Mmm...you make a fine breakfast, milady." Killian is chewing every bite thoroughly, looking extremely pleased after each swallow. Behind her back, he had woken up silently, dressed quickly, and readily sat down at her two-place table. In retribution, Emma's mind is wondering how he is not a mirage and is still here.  _Everyone leaves eventually. No one stays._

She shrugs meekly in response to his praise. "It's only fried eggs and bread and butter―"

"All of which create a feast fit for a king," he counters, raising an eyebrow defiantly when she opens her mouth to contradict him. The gesture renders her silent and she closes her mouth after a moment of reflection.

"I'm not...much of a cook," she finally says, looking down at her lap. Her own morning meal lies untouched on the table, the plate and fork and napkin arranged in perfect symmetry. But nothing looks appetizing.

When Killian folds his napkin beside his own plate, placing his soiled cutlery on top, she smiles weakly and moves to take it ― and her own failed sustenance ― to the iron sink on the far-side wall. His hand reaches out to stop her.

"You're not eating?" he inquires softly, looking as concerned as he did when she almost drowned. Blushing, she shakes her head.

"I don't feel hungry."

He bows his head, and Emma worries that she's embarrassed him. To escape what could be coming, what might be coming, she makes a choice and takes a leap of faith: she places her hand over his. The action clearly startles him, because he is staring at their nearly conjoined hands as if they are unknown objects that have suddenly appeared.

"It's a memory," she explains softly, touching his skin a second time before withdrawing and completing the task she started. The swish of draining water and quiet gurgle of it reaching the pipe that leads it home outside masks his footsteps, for one moment she is alone and then he is right behind her, removing her hand from clutching the edge of the sink and returning it to his hold.

"You seem to have many painful memories, I think," he murmurs. The gentle tone of his voice, the way he caresses her fingers with his, makes her turn towards him. He makes her look at him, even though he is not doing anything. He is naturally persuasive ― or perhaps she has been seeking a kindred soul all this time and she still hasn't learned her lesson...that friendship doesn't really exist...

"But then..." He smiles sadly. "So do I."

She marvels that he doesn't just  _assume_  their kinship, that he's letting her set the terms of their relationship ― whatever that might be. Because these feelings he stirs in her...so profound, so mysterious...they refuse to be disregarded and demand to be defined. They remind her of what she once dreamed of, a time that appears to be so distant and unreachable now.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Swan," he recites, but there is sincerity in his words in lieu of cold formality. He adds an instant later, "This is the first time in a long time that I've been ― and  _stayed_  ― in a place where I haven't been judged. Or..." He looks down. "Or laughed at."

She tries to smile. "And who says I haven't judged you?"

"I have my ways," he chuckles drily. Then his expression is increasingly sombre. "But, if you truly had, you wouldn't be asking me that question right now. I speak from experience." His gaze softens and strengthens all at once. "You  _are_  afraid to trust me, to reveal yourself...but how can I expect more, when I feel the same as you do?"

Earnest, kind, questioning, anguished... Killian Jones is no ordinary man. He has been forced to wear the coat of a scapegoat, taking the scorn of Storybrooke in stride with his own pain. "But I thought I irritated you," she replies to a passing thought, unable to form an answer equivalent to his previous query.

He only grins and follows the mutual memory as well, remarking, "You were at the right place at the wrong time. I was in a particularly foul mood that afternoon, and even the smallest amount of patience was lacking." He moves closer, daring to lower his face so that their noses are almost touching. "If you believe that I don't like you, you are quite incorrect, darling. Oh no... When I see you," he whispers breathlessly, "I see hope. There's a beacon of light in this town again, and I'm helpless to stay away from it."

She searches his eyes, suddenly desperate for reassurance but not sure what to say. His fixed stare is quite as scrutinizing as hers, and again, she feels this lengthening connection, like a taut line of rope anchoring her to her course, extend out from him to her. "Maybe the reason is that we understand each other," she offers with a timid smile

"Aye...you and I..." He brushes his lips against her forehead, and the soft kiss he leaves there makes Emma gasp quietly and a jolt of dread sweeps through her. "To have someone who knows precisely what you have gone through...it's a powerful antidote."

"Antidote? To what?"

"We've both been left alone."

She can smell his earthy scent, as if he carries the fragrant spices of the world with him wherever he goes. He has heaven's gaze, and though he is no Hercules from the Greek myths she read as a young adult, he has the looks of a demi-god, beauty and strength and fire melded together so that the closest reminder of a celestial angel remains. And he is fallible, which makes him human and within her touch, her reach. Despite her efforts to deny it, her body is relentlessly attracted to his, and she can't stop it.

But as for what he thinks of her...

"Emma Swan, you are more of a rare bird than you believe," he reveals, his hand stroking her cheek. She is now convinced that he can read her mind, but not like a street magician selling card tricks. Similarity is a double-edged sword, for you can see through another by recognizing yourself in them. "And to set the record straight, to put any doubts to rest, let me be perfectly clear and open. I like you. And I'd like to experience the pleasure of your company more often in the coming days. Will you do me this honor, that I will continue to see you and talk to you once I take my leave today and walk out of this door?"

She lets her growing smile take over her lips, lets the flutter of happiness building inside shine through. "But what are your true intentions?" she challenges one last time, not wanting to tease him ― however, she does need to know his ulterior motives, if he has any. Clues would be helpful...

He smirks all too charmingly. "Why, I intend to be your  _friend_. I would never presume more ― unless you wished it." Bending down, he kisses her hands and clasps them in his single one, as if she is a lady and he is a lord. Utter honesty in every gesture, every word, every glance. Who is this man, really? He has the airs of a gentleman ― but then, a true gentleman is one at heart and not at appearance. And Killian Jones seems to be the former, not the latter.

She realizes she's been holding her breath, speechless, when Killian clears his throat expectantly, awaiting her reply. He is anxious, and there's a visible sign of worry that she'll reject him, that he could never be anything to her. "Ahem...I'd...I'd like that. Very, very much." She would enjoy spending more moments like this with him, but from the way the sun is shining on her windows, it's time to go to the schoolhouse. "And now...we must say good-bye." The look of heartbreak on his face makes her shiver, and she hastens to rectify it. "I'm due for work, Killian," she adds with a gentle laugh.

The sound of his name uttered by her voice mollifies his expression like the magic dust of dreams does in fairy tales. His smile is the proof. "Oh. Well, in that case..." He helps her don her coat and shawl, quite adept and agile as he springs toward the door, eager and pleased as can be. "Allow me to escort you to the school, my Swan?"

She chuckles and rolls her eyes. "And how am I  _your_  Swan, may I ask?"

"Simple ― I saw you first. There are only two swans in this town: one resides in the night sky, and the other...she's found a permanent place in my dreams, my thoughts, and my life." The intensity with which he says this, his gaze searing and piercing, causes a blush to dance upon her cheeks, and she can feel the atmosphere in the room grow hotter and hotter, like he has become a singular burning star because of his fine speech.

"Killian Jones, you certainly know the power of flattery." Pretending to be chagrined, she tsks at him. After locking the door behind them, she leads him down the small trail down to the main path. Vague fog has settled around the houses and dots the landscape like runaway clouds from the sky gone rampant.

"It's not flattery when it's the truth, love. But no worries ― I've always been told I'm quite good in rhetoric." This earns more of her laughter ― and his answering smile ― once again. Their breaths are puffs of white smoke in the chilly air, and though it's sunny and bright, the world looks like a land of mist. She holds on to his right arm, her steps are perfectly in time with his...and though he is peering at street corners and windows, the look of exile and condemnation entering his eyes, she keeps her head up high and tells herself that she cares less what the villagers will think of the schoolteacher parading around with the lighthouse keeper.

Out of all her new acquaintances here, this is one she's willing to take a chance on for more.

* * *

_Robin Locksley's mansion is more grand and awe-inspiring than she could ever possible imagine. However, in some ways, it feels cold and empty, as the master of the house is usually not in, leaving her frequently alone with two children and a kitchen full of servants._

_Roland is five years old and always tags along with his toy bear, while precocious Henry ― his soon-to-be stepbrother ― still believes in magic at the tender age of nine. Together, they create a lot of mischief, their love for stories causing chaos for the entire household when they're on the search for adventure. They giggle and scream, run and hide about the garden, chase each other across rooms and corridors, ask hundreds of questions during lessons. They are bursts of energy and enthusiasm._

_Being their governess is no easy task, but at the end of the day, it feels rather rewarding nonetheless. She is teaching them mathematics, but childhood logic intervenes more often than not, and she finds herself talking off-topic about navigating the world with only a compass, or building a treehouse on a deserted island with barely any tools. They are supposed to be practicing their writing, but she ends up telling them stories about faraway lands and heroes and villains, about good and evil and how love is more powerful than anything else. And during Latin translations, they beg her to narrate tales from_ Plutarch's Lives _or any myths she's willing to share._

_Little by little, she learns that she enjoys this opportunity that she's been given, and that maybe Mother Superior was right._

_She likes taking care of her students, even if she wishes with all her might that someone would choose to take care of her._

_Walking briskly toward the servants' quarters in search of the housekeeper, Miss Adelaide, she runs into another figure exiting that very place quicker than she's entering it._

_He apologizes profusely, then his eyes meet hers. It's like a match has been lit and it's being held close to her skin, the way her face flushes and she can't speak. But he overlooks her embarrassment and shyness, calmly introducing himself as Neal, that he works in the stables, and that he was just badgering the cook for his promised lunch. He smiles after she does, he mentions her new position in the Locksley household, and welcomes her to Sherwood Manor. He's handsome, well-voiced, and..._

_And she still remembers how he turned his head at the corner, giving her another ogling look and winsome grin before heading out of her sight._

_Over the next few hours, the stables become a priority to visit, because she is sure of one thing: she would really like to see this Neal again._

* * *

Mary Margaret waves to her from across the lane, and Emma gladly reciprocates, wanting to talk to her and David again.

"Hello...I haven't seen you for a long while," she begins awkwardly when she's standing beside Mary. The young woman at her right just gives her a warm smile and gently squeezes her hand.

"David and I ― we've missed you, Emma. Truly." She continues before Emma get in a word. "He told me about that night you couldn't come, and I felt so bad about that whole misunderstanding that I told him we needed to give you some space and let you be, if you wanted some time to be alone. But..." She finally inhales, her cheeks pink. "If you're up for it, we would greatly enjoy having you over for dinner again sometime."

The kindly, happily spoken invitation encourages Emma to accept. "I'd love to."

"Wonderful! Oh, and I hope you don't mind company ― David wants Killian to come over ― you remember him, right? ― and he's practically pulling an arm and a leg to persuade him to agree. But maybe he'll be more agreeable when he hears  _you'll_  be there..."

 _As candid a matchmaker as ever._ Apparently, no one knows about the incident with the boat, about Killian furtively staying the night in her abode. For if the town did know about it, Mary Margaret would surely know about it as well. She is considered Storybrooke's resident princess, in many regards, but she never acts like it. She has the most congenial disposition in the world, and David is a very fortunate man.

"No, I don't mind. I don't mind at all." Emma hefts her heavy canvas bag up on her shoulder, trying to soothe her aching back and shoulder. "I was meaning to ask, by the way, if you know of anywhere I could find more sheet music paper?"

Mary Margaret strides in time with her as they follow the winding paths, some of the town out of view as they near the girl's house. "I do ― Marco's carpentry shop sells some paper on the side. But what do you need it for?"

She groans when the strap of the bag digs into a particularly sore muscle. "Oh, me being an idiot as usual." She sighs when Mary Margaret gapes at her, both brows furrowed. "I want to teach the children about music. I was thinking...about forming a school choir, just for them, so they can do something together as a class."

"That's...that's a splendid idea!" She beams at her.

Emma shakes her head tiredly. "More of a recipe for disaster than anything else ― some of the older boys are tone-deaf, and getting them to get into group formation is like taming a pack of wild dogs." She rubs at her eyes, pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders. "But I'm not going to give up so easily. I'll start by teaching them how to read music, music history, music theory... Dear Lord, this is going to be so difficult..."

She realizes a moment too late that she's taken the Lord's name in vain and probably shocked the very demure Mary Margaret, but to Emma's surprise, David's fiancé is barely holding back her laughter.

"What's so funny?"

"You," she giggles. "You're...Emma, no matter what you say or how you grumble, you're the most dedicated teacher I've ever met."

She scoffs. "The  _only_  teacher you've ever met."

"True," Mary Margaret admits, "but you fit my vision of what a teacher  _should_  be like perfectly."

Throughout her life so far, many people have bestowed compliments and derision upon her. The latter came easily, while the former was occasional, and when it did come, it was usually offered in expectation of something to be given in return.

 _Nothing is for free_ , says the age-old adage, and Emma learned this one pretty early in life. But the genuine admiration in her friend's eyes speaks to the contrary.

* * *

For several days, there's no sign of the elusive Killian. Not that she's counting the days. It's obvious that he's occupied with his own work, and that maintaining the lighthouse requires constant vigilance. However, Emma secretly hopes that he would try to find a moment to visit her in the midst of his daily duties. She knows it's a selfish hope, when if she truly wanted to see him, she could go visit him herself.

Oh, the horror of old women's gossip and the town's disrepute if she were to do such a thing.

Luckily, David catches her on her journey back to her cottage after the class has been dismissed for the day. After sharing greetings and relative small talk, he offhandedly comments about helping Killian fix the faulty lighthouse lamps and a breakage near the main lamp. She quietly suggests her help. Without a second thought, he answers with a big grin and hearty whistling as they tread upward, wandering farther and farther from the heart of Storybrooke on their way to the mysterious outcast's home.

Well, she wanted adventure, a break from this tranquil life and its predictability ― but daring venture or not, this expedition will certainly change much. That she believes more than anything as she hikes up her skirt to her calves and trudges alongside a panting David.

As David predicted, the lighthouse and its adjoining quarters are nestled in the heart of a high foothill, almost hanging on a nearby promontory. Thick forest surrenders to sparse outlying trees, and they in their turn yield to an abundance of high, green grass. It is extremely windy when they arrive at their destination, but it is a blessing in disguise. The strong breeze pushes Emma closer and closer to a jutting cliff, but she ignores the possibility of danger and instead focuses on what's below and ahead.

The awaiting view takes her breath away and stuns her.

When the sunlight catches the ocean waves and tosses its reflection back and forth upon them, the sea indifferent to all elements except its own, she knows  _that_  is freedom. The open horizon, tomorrows not fixed in a particular place and time, the promise of endless drifting...

Yes, that is a true escape, a passage to another life.

Her skirt is billowing about her like a mad, fluttering sheet. Her bonnet has been blown into inactivity, thin strings keeping it hanging behind her head until she can use it again. Her hair has been stolen by air itself, toying with each strand individually and together. Her eyes are watering, but they're adjusting the new sensations and growing bolder.

She loves this. Absolutely  _loves_  it. No fences, no gates, no walls, no chains. No heartbreak ― not up here. Fear of exposure has fled.

Spreading her arms, she pretends she's riding the winds of time, and she lets her eyelids close, reveling in how weightless and transparent she feels. Tilting her head back, she inhales deeply as her cheeks are caressed by fingertips that are not of skin and bone.

At night, the endless stars ground you, remind you that you are so small in space that is so vast and beyond your comprehension. But it is the ocean that encourages you to stake your claim on the earth by actually being with all of it, not just one little piece.

Finally, she smiles as the wind dies and she comes back down from the skies. No wonder Killian hides up here rather than coming to Storybrooke. In all his solitude and loneliness, he has one thing that she does not: the splendor of nature and its calling to the most intrinsic part of every living creature.

"Emma?" David calls out, waving her over.  _God, he is so much like Mary Margaret that there's not separating one from the other_ , she muses, biting back a laugh as she runs her fingers through her curls and tries to comb through her now messy, entangled hair.

Enough of her daydreams and fantasies.

It's time to go see Killian Jones.

* * *


	6. Despair, All Who Enter Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here's where I got a bit inspired by Paul Gallico's short story, "The Snow Goose."

The main alcove after the doorway is completely bare. Sad, white-washed walls, perhaps siblings to those of her own cottage, frown at her as she passes through, letting David lead the way. Strangely, Killian didn't come to greet them at the door, but David explained that maybe he was already up in the lighthouse. He leaves her to explore, saying he'll go and find him.

Apparently, his deduction is quite correct, for David doesn't return. After some minutes, the sitting room grows monotonous. Except for a few articles of furniture and the soft blue settee she's seated on, there isn't anything else here. When she peeks into the kitchen, it too is bereft of any material objects, looking very austere and clean.

_Too much loneliness in this house..._

Feeling like she is lost in the maze of hallways, Emma seeks the first closed door in order to escape the gloom cast by drawn shutters. It's only natural that Killian would protect the interior of his home from too much sunlight ― even simple-minded servants knew that. Scoffing at herself, she hesitates before bursting through.

She knows it is wrong to impede on this man's due privacy. That perhaps Killian will be affronted by her rash course of action, sneaking through his home like a thief. But her curiosity is stronger than her fear.

With a brief thought toward that old fairy tale with the man who had one locked door among hundreds that were open, she pushes on the wood, and it creaks in response, heeding her body's command.

* * *

_Dear God. Here, there is light._

What is in front of her can be nothing but an artist's studio. There stands the easel in the middle, currently empty of a subject to display. On a small side table is a wooden cup full of erect paintbrushes, a palette with the marks of dry paint, and a sponge. It also has drawers. Drawers that she dares to open. Drawers that are filled with the full range of light's spectrum.

Killian owns what seems to be hundreds of small canisters of ground pigments. A very large, cylindrical jar of linseed rests at the bottom on a low open plank that looks like a makeshift shelf. That spade must be what he uses for measuring and then mixing his own paints.

And then...on the surrounding walls...

 _Is it a sin to gaze upon what surely is another's soul?_  Emma stifles a gasp on viewing the longing, the anguish, the depth in every one of his brushstrokes, the care and effort he put into distinguishing the abstract from reality. Tens upon hundreds of paintings overlap, none of them framed as they dangle from nails pounded into stone, and surrounding them are unfinished sketches, drawings, and watercolor dabs.

Some are small, whilst others are large. David's portrait has his uncanny likeness, while the landscape etched out in blurry, quick blots is colorful and strangely exact, capturing the tones of sunset and that bittersweet ending of the day.

She is stunned beyond mere words. There is so much feeling here ―  _so much love_  ― that she wonders how Killian hides his true self under the gruff exterior he exhibits to the village folk. If she had talent like this, aching to be expressed, it would be torture not to share it.

Examining every feature, every detail, she hurries about, flitting from image to image, picture to picture, until her eyes land on a very unmistakable face.

_Golden curls tossed back, a small smile on her face. Had he peeked into the schoolhouse on that day one of the children made her laugh?_

The lines were masterly done, the shading exquisite. Clearly, he had taken his time to complete his vision of her.

Tearing her eyes away from the drawing, she notices a small door adjoining the room, nearly hidden if not for the wooden doorknob giving it away. Unable to resist, she tries it. The door is locked.

With a final glance around the studio, Emma exits, rushing to the only other room in this house. At first, its door also refuses to budge, but with a few choice pushes, she stumbles inside.

Oh no. It's Killian's―

Actually, it's not much of a shock. But even the very air exudes a sense of mystery, of closure, of things that are not meant to be spoken about. Dread pounds into her stomach, and she can barely breathe as she peers about, wanting desperately to just leave but feeling strangely compelled to stay. This is a room of secrets. Here, the keeper of the lighthouse stores his past, boxed into four walls that are never visited.

On the wall, above his small bed, hangs a beautiful portrait. A portrait of a woman with dream-filled eyes, dark brown curls spilling onto her shoulders. Though she has just been in his studio the one time, she immediately recognizes the style of his brushstrokes, the lavish attention to detail he's given. The placement of this particular artwork in his own chambers, of all rooms.

She stands in awe before it.

He has captured the heart of the woman in the painting, because among wistfulness and a hint of sorrow lies an unwavering look of love. The woman's love. And since she is gazing outward, facing the world, it is obvious.

This woman loves Killian. And judging by the emotion exuding itself from within the very canvas, he loves her. Or he loved her. Or perhaps theirs is a love that cannot be. Whatever the reason.

Now Emma feels like an intruder, as if witnessing a tender moment between the two lovers in person. Her footsteps echo in the room as she draws closer, captivated despite herself.  _What is her name? For as the truism goes, everything in this world must have a name. Even love._

"Milah," she says aloud, reading Killian's cursive with ease.  _Her name is Milah. And Killian loves Milah._

Panic grips her throat when noise erupts through the silence and she can hear someone moving in the hall. Acting on impulse, she lunges for the door, only to be forced backward when it slams open.

_Oh God. Oh no._

Killian is as irate as a Titan from a Greek myth. His nostrils are flaring like that of a mad horse, his sparkling gaze is livid, and his lips are a thin line of contempt.

 _This day could have gone differently_ , Emma briefly predicts.  _It could have continued with him being happy with my visit, eager to show me his home, ready to share a small part of his new life. Instead, it will not be._

Indeed, her prediction comes true. "How dare you," he hisses, fury tensing his limbs. It looks like he has washed up, hair a bit damp, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a stiff clean shirt on his person. That was why he took so long to greet her. He wanted to be presentable ― for  _her_. "How  _dare_  you come into this room."

She decides to plead with him, hoping for mercy. "Killian," she whispers, "I apologize―"

"This is not some idle mishap where you take the high road and I take the low road, lass!" he growls, the volume of his voice quickly rising. "I would never impose myself on you this way, in your own home ― so why in God's name have you done so to me? Have you no sense of decency, of decorum?" He is shouting now, and she stifles the urge to cover her ears. "The doors are closed for a reason. Why, not even David has gone into any, and he is my friend!"

That hurts the most. That last line. Not the part where he said she doesn't have any manners, or that she's rude. She bites back her own anger. "Killian, please ― I didn't mean to―"

"Didn't mean to?" he roars. "Then you bloody shouldn't have done this in the first place!"

She wants to defend herself, but all the excuses she could give sound weak to her, so how would they sound to him? Hanging her head, she clasps her hands and waits. Waits patiently for another reprimand and then...perhaps...an explanation. An explanation for why he has buried himself in this house.

Instead, he utters the words that signal everything that is ill, bad, terrible. Everything that cries  _you have gone too far_. "Get out." Two words that are a venomous hiss.

Though she was expecting the worst, she was not expecting this. Gaping at him, she attempts to ask  _why_ , but he points at the door. "Leave. Now."

He is her most hated teacher at school, ordering her to take her punishment. He is Robin when she crossed the boundaries between employer and worker and said too much. He is Killian, who is apparently very hurt over what she has done. But unlike with the others, she doesn't believe he will readily forgive her, even for a breach this small. Didn't David once say that he was  _very_  capable of holding a grudge?

It all happens so fast, this discord, that she doesn't know how to react. But given the way his gaze scorches what it lands upon, she marches out of his room, her pace becoming a sprint as soon as she's out the front door. She doesn't have a chance to say good-bye to David, who's most likely still up in the lighthouse, fixing and mending, undoubtedly seeing her leave (with much confusion on his part).

She also doesn't have a chance to glance at the beautiful scenery she adores. She's too occupied with running down the hill, wiping away miserable tears streaking down her cheeks.

When the lighthouse is out of sight, she sneaks into a small grove of trees and sits down on the ground, ignoring that her dress will be horribly soiled and that the dead leaves are probably full of vermin.

Thinking of what home means, of what she left behind, of what she hoped to gain by coming to Storybrooke, of how nothing ever works in her life, she breaks down and weeps. Her entire senses are in turmoil, and she can't breathe. Everything is too tight, too impassive, too cruel.

It is dusk when she arrives back in her cottage, and as soon as she can, she closes the shutters, wishing the entire world to go away. She knows that she is blinded by her feelings, but she keeps hearing the timbre of his voice, the pain in his tone...

The pain in her own.

Her appetite has fled for the day, and she mutely undresses and climbs into bed without taking repast, rather stoking the fire and staring at it through the darkness. Not that long ago, he was here, sharing a meal with her, talking to her. Being a possible friend over an acquaintance.

_Now he hated her._

So through her sobs, she settled on one firm decision.

She will only concentrate on her teaching from now on.

No more budding friendships.

No more socializing.

Just work. Because she seems to be good at that, at least.

She isn't loved. She never was. She never will be. And she must learn to accept that.

_As far as other things are concerned, she's done._

* * *

The next morning goes by rather quickly. Since it is a Saturday, she does not have to teach, so she walks to the carpenter's shop, the man Mary Margaret was telling her about. It is early, right at dawn, so she meets no one she knows.

Marco. Hmm, Italian-sounding name.

Once inside the wooden building, she sneezes several times, overwhelmed by the smell of sawdust. It's chafing her eyes as well, making them itchy.

"Hello?" she calls out when no one comes to see her. "I...uh...was told I could buy paper here?"

There's a thud, and then a man suddenly emerges from under a table she just passed by. Surprised, Emma shrieks.

"Apologies, miss ― I was so taken in my work, I didn't hear you enter." Disheveled and dusty, he's wearing an apron, and tools are in his hands.

"Are you..." She looks him up and down. "Are you Marco?"

A cheeky grin makes it way across his face, where two blue eyes twinkle at her. He chuckles. "Uh ― no. I hope I don't look  _that_  old, now."

She longs to cross her arms over her chest, but that wouldn't be seemly. "I was told Marco was an older gentleman, but I didn't know a rogue worked here."

He bows, pretending to be chagrined. "I meant no offense ― but being taken for one's father is belittling in its own way, don't you agree?" The man brushes hair from his brow, placing his tools on top of the unfinished table. "I hoped some people in town remembered who I am."

She shrugs. "Mary Margaret only mentioned Marco."

To her shock, he looks upward, sighing loudly. "Of course. Of course." He then glances at her more steadily out of the corner of his eye. "You're Emma Swan, aren't you? Newcomer ― and schoolteacher?"

This time, it is she who scowls, wanting to be recalled for something other than her status as an outsider. "Correct," she says caustically. "And I am here to purchase some paper. So, if you please..."

He bows again, mockingly, and opens a cabinet to his far left. There is some rustling, and he sticks out his head. "I'm August, by the way ― how many sheets will that be?"

She is befuddled by his crafty weaving of a personal introduction into her order, but tries not to show it. "One hundred."

One eyebrow lifts. "You must have big plans, Miss Swan ― are you a writer in secret?"

She shakes her head, biting her lower lip. "That would be...nice...but this is for work."

"Ah yes...because you're teaching." He taps his temple as if willing that thought into the depths of his memory. He says nothing else.

She places his payment on the counter, hoping it is right according to what her friend said Marco charges. August wraps her purchase, careful not to damage a single paper, and hands it to her.

He also takes her only free hand in his and shakes it lightly. "Thank you for your patronage. It's nice to have met you, Miss Emma Swan. I hope to see more of you."

The way he watches her leave, his lean frame leaning against the side of a bookcase, makes her think he doesn't just mean inside the shop.


	7. Lost or Found

Sunday service is, per usual, monotonous. People cough, clear their throats, and snore during Pastor Hopper's sermon, the dull noises creating a haze of noise that makes Emma want to run out the door and seek the seashore. At least there it is quiet and calm.  _And void of company._ It isn't that the minister is not a fine speaker. He chirps away about God as merrily as a trickling brook running through a forest of trees. But who hears that small stream among the sounds coming from the living creatures who've made the forest their home?

Mary Margaret waved to her when Emma entered the small church, slinking down the aisle in an effort not to be seen. The girl's pleasant, warm demeanor forced a smile out of her, if only to be duly polite to the one person who still liked her. Well, judging by how David eyed Emma with an expression of sympathy, he at least feels sorry for her, even if he is loyal to Killian first and foremost. She respects that.

She was about to walk over to them, tempted to sit next to them and not be crowded as usual by old women who give her disdainful looks or boisterous children who nearly shriek in her ear in order to gain some sense of excitement during a boring interlude. And she would have...if not for the figure standing next to David.

At first Killian Jones had been looking down, his hair combed back neatly, his attire tidy and well-chosen.  _Then again, everyone is in their best clothes. God, David must have pulled an eye and a tooth to get him to come here..._ But the moment he peered upward, she perceived that his stare was directed toward her. It was strong enough that she knew he pointedly sought her attention.

She refused to return it, refused to give him another thought. Instead of joining the friendly couple, she bowed her head and walked toward the pulpit, not glancing back.

In the morning, when she first arrived, Pastor Hopper took her aside and asked her if she would take Mrs. Tremaine's place, the old lady being ill and unable to move from her bed. Naturally, Emma paused. She never liked playing the piano in front of others, always felt that restless urge to impress and the pressure of perfection when on center stage. But the minister pleaded with her, saying that it was just for now. Music, he said, was important for the congregation's participation in the liturgy. It was another way for them to reach out to God, to talk to Him.

How could she argue with that?

So here she is, sitting on the bench, glad that the simple upright is positioned against the wall, only one side of her exposed to the listening crowd before her. When she played the welcoming hymn, everyone took notice. Though it has been some months since she really played, all of her learning came flooding back to her immediately. Her fingers flew over the keys, and some religious piece by Handel softly encouraged the parishioners to think of the divine while managing to keep them awake due to the  _allegretto_  tempo _._

She never told anyone she could play an instrument, let alone the piano, so it was more surprising than shocking that a round of applause erupted as soon as she finished the coda, dying down on its own as the pastor rose to his stand to say his sermon.

Now, his preaching draws to an end, and true to form, she prepares her hands, readying herself for another piece. But then, while he walks down the small stairs, he stops short, turns around, and heads straight toward her.

"Miss Swan," he whispers, "would it be too much of a bother to ask you to lead us in song?"

She gulps, keeping her gaze fixated on the walnut wood in front of her so she won't look at  _anyone_  in her audience. "I'm sorry ― I haven't played for some time, so my skills―"

"Emma," he interrupts, though not unkindly, "your performance was beautiful ― and I want to thank you again for taking this responsibility onto your shoulders on such short notice. But you see... We're used to singing one final hymn before departure. It's a routine part of the service."

She wants to bang her forehead against the keyboard. "Me? Sing?" Chuckling wryly, she shakes her head. "I don't think I can―"

"Please?" he implores.

She's never been much for singing. The last time she sang was...  _But she is going to teach her students music, so lying won't work._  Clearing her mind, she smiles tightly at him and replies, "Alright. Give me a minute, if you please?"

He nods and returns to his seat. In a flash, she has to think of a song she remembers that is in her range and that she can play confidently. Clearing her throat, she licks her lips before she begins the introduction of her selection.

Music is a funny thing. A few notes well placed together have the power of conjuring dozens of memories, all related to that very theme. They also can bring one back in time to access feelings long forgotten or left behind. For her, the confined space of the church interior fades away when she opens her mouth to sing, reminding her of how Sister Astrid trained her school choir even when it seemed hopeless. How Emma was told she had a beautiful voice. How more than two gentlemen, ones she respected, had concurred with that compliment many times.

She's missed this, indeed. Because when she's playing, nothing else matters. It's as if music takes her soul and sets it somewhere heavenly, somewhere safe and warm and welcoming. No angry men there. No sad women. No lonely children. Just happiness, lifting her up from darkness.

A few times, her voice is off pitch, she misses a key when one of her fingers slip, and her legs tremble. But most importantly, she does her best, and altogether, it is a success. The townsfolk are convinced to join in, singing their hearts out, and the roof nearly shakes with the power of their duet with Emma. After Archie intones the closing prayer, some of the men and women start to clap, the children being the loudest of all. She can guess most of her students are in the congregation, accompanied by their parents.

Feeling embarrassed and confused, she wrings her hands and tries to make a timely, discreet exit.  _She needs to avoid Killian._

Unfortunately, that doesn't work at all.

* * *

She cannot turn her back on Mary Margaret, cannot be rude to her friend. So when she sees the woman approaching, David and Killian lagging far behind her, Emma pushes down the notion that she's being ambushed and swallows her discomfort with a weak grin.

"Good Lord, Emma ― I didn't know you could play! And you sang like an angel too!" She claps a hand over her mouth when some remaining people sitting in the pews give her reprimanding glares over her shouts. "When did you learn?" she now whispers.

Emma shrugs, wishing she had something to clasp to her chest so her arms wouldn't dangle so awkwardly at her sides. Focusing on Mary alone, she thanks her and states, "It was part of my education, growing up. My teachers were very...demanding when it came to practice. My palms have stung from the slap of several rulers in their time."

"How horrible!"

Emma sneaks a glance at her followers, who have finally caught up with their leader. David appears to be intrigued by this short snippet of her past, while...yes, Killian is observing her again.

Heaving a sigh, she hates what she has to do next. "Well...Mary Margaret...David..." she nods toward both of them in turn, making their companion a blurry blind spot in her vision, "it was nice to see you. But I have much work to do back at the cottage, so if you will excuse me, I will take my leave now." Sidestepping them all by way of a curtsey, she walks to the open double doors, raising her skirt to her calves so it doesn't get caught on her shoes when she descends down the stairs.

Killian told her he is always ignored by the villagers, and despite appearances, it sounds like he doesn't appreciate being ostracized. But that is what she's just done ― she's pretended he doesn't exist.

What she wants to know is if it hurt him to be on the receiving end of her contempt as much as it hurt her to give it. But it doesn't matter, really.

She doesn't want to see him or speak to him again.

The moment she crosses the threshold of the church, she nearly races back inside, considering it the better option in comparison to what's awaiting her outside.

"You're very quick with your hands, Miss Swan ― and on your feet, I daresay." Winking at her, August the carpenter politely tips his cap, his thumbs later hooking around his suspenders in an air of nonchalance. Not far from him is a gray-haired man whom Emma can only assume must be Marco, August's father and legendary woodcarver. He's made furniture and memorabilia for all the families in Storybrooke, if the stories are to be believed. However, both men are devoid of sawdust, she notes to herself, and have donned simple but well starched attire that befits them.

After Marco finishes his animated talk with Granny, Red off to the side and surrounded by a group of young men and women, he slowly strides over to his son, clapping him on the back. "You should join them, my boy." He nods at the social circle that seems to be comprised of all adolescents in the village. Her side vision proclaims that some of the females are secretly eyeing Killian, and not in an innocent way.  _Hypocrites._

August bites down on his lower lip and gives Emma a hint of a smirk, his gaze scintillating in the daylight. "Why would I do that, when I'm already in the company of this lovely lady before me?" he answers smoothly, gesturing toward her. "Father, this is Miss Emma Swan, our talented schoolteacher. Miss Swan, allow me to introduce Marco Geppetto di Firenze. Or as most know him ― Marco. My father, and one of the council."

To her great surprise, the elder man kisses her hand. "It's an honor to finally make your acquaintance in person, Signorina Swan. August here, and Signorina Mary Margaret, have told me many good things about you."

Emma blushes at how musical he's made her name become by uttering the Italian form of address before it. How tactful and kind of a man who's more of a patriarch of this place than anyone else. She had never been brought before the town council personally, since Graham and Robin's joint recommendation had been enough to convince them of her merit, so she wasn't really aware of particular names and seats and so forth. Pastor Hopper had been her main contact throughout for the position. "Thank you, Signor Geppetto―"

He waves formalities away, smiling at her. "Please, call me Marco, Signorina ― everyone else does."

Yes, she likes this man. Of course, August is grinning like a madman at their friendly exchange, but who cares about that? His father has a sincerity and warmth about him that, like with David's mother Ruth, makes her feel at ease and at home. " _Marco_...did you study art in Florence?" she inquires, quite curious. Well, if she is going to make small talk, then why not ask real questions that have value?

The man chuckles. "I was born in Florence, Signorina. My father before me, and his father before him...we all are woodcarvers and carpenters by birth, woodcutters by trade. Yes, I took the opportunity to learn about sculpture under a few great artists, but I had no desire to stay there forever. Firenze has changed so much since I was a little boy." He sighs deeply, frowning. "I haven't been there in years ― since August was born, in fact."

In an instant, a perpetual gloom settles over the conversation, despite the abundant sunshine, crisp wind, and azure sky around them. Emma realizes that August's mother must have died a long while ago, and both father and son are surely missing her amid this memory. "I've never been abroad at all," she inserts amicably. "But I've read much about Italia, and I'd love to visit there sometime. Traveling the world..." A wistful smile tugs at her lips. "It would be a dream come true, to see and learn so much for myself."

August cocks his head at her, looking startled that she has shared such a detail about herself with them. "Perhaps someday, you could make that dream a reality." He shrugs, grinning boyishly. It drives the shadows away from the pensive expression on his face. "I'd carve you a wooden sailboat, but I doubt it would be large enough to take you far. Moreover, it would probably sink into the first wave."

The lighthearted comment brings Marco back to life. Laughing, he ruffles his son's hair playfully, earning a mock scowl from said recipient. "You know, my dear, I think I've hardly heard anything else from  _mio bambino caro_  all month but talk of you. Why, last night, he said you visited the shop―"

"That's enough, Father," August growls out in warning, his cheeks flushing a deep shade of red.

Emma stifles a laugh of her own. He looks thoroughly embarrassed by Marco's insinuations, and while her intuition signaled that this rather attractive man was flirting with her in his own manner during their interaction yesterday, she never really thought afterwards that he might like her as a man likes a woman, especially not for a lengthy period of time. Red can easily be called beautiful, and on seeing other women of this town parade about, Emma cannot believe that she herself stands out at all.

Still, August never dared to approach her himself, waiting patiently until they would cross paths on a more dignified level, and honorable intentions count for something. Impressed by his gentleman-like behavior, she clips her response so that it is diplomatic. "Your son was very kind and hospitable yesterday ― and I thank you for it," she nods at August, who is anxiously wringing his cap between his hands. Reassessing her surroundings, she notices that Killian is now also outside with David and Mary Margaret, who are both talking to the local doctor, Victor Whale, as well as an eager redhead named Zelena. But he isn't speaking or paying attention to any of them.

He's staring at her again, his jaw set, hand clenched into a white fist, eyes burning like twin blue stars. Then a death wish of a glower is sent toward―

 _August_.

 _Oh dear._  She needs to leave.  _Now_. Before some sort of masculine fight erupts. "I hope we can talk again soon," she softly rebuffs, half-turning so that they will indirectly know of her intention to depart. "It was wonderful to talk to the both of you."

Marco cuts in, "But Signorina ― today, there is a luncheon for the town by the beachside. Won't you join us?" He points toward the people flocking in that direction, some with dishes and baking pans in their hands. Darn it, Pastor Hopper must have announced the upcoming gathering right before the exit song, and she didn't even listen.

Everything begins to make sense. David invited Killian to come, knowing he would blend in with the crowd but still have a chance to mingle. And somewhere, somehow, a chance to corner her, perhaps. The intensity of his ogling speaks for that deduction.

She has to go. It's a social function where everyone meets everyone, where she has the rare opportunity to see her students ― and their parents ― in a normal environment. When she will encounter dozens of people who haven't met her yet or want to meet her or care less about meeting her but have to.

She can talk to the council about collecting money for art and music supplies for the children. She can mention how she wants to develop a rigorous arts program for all ages, in addition to the math and language lessons they are currently learning.

She can broaden her own social circle. She can eat a family-cooked meal again. She can laugh and enjoy herself. She can have merriment and entertainment in her own right.

These arguments course through her mind in less than a minute, but they are all defeated by her reluctance to confront Killian, her desire to keep avoiding him, her determination to crush whatever exists between them.  _If there is anything at all_.

"Please," she returns, "call me Emma." Bowing her head, she excuses her absence. "The post came in today ― or so I've heard." She bites down on her tongue, hoping it's true. "I'm expecting a letter. It should have been dropped off at my home by now."

August and Marco are bemused, though the latter gives her an understanding smile. Taking her hand in his once more, he kisses it respectfully and says, "There is nothing more important than matters of the heart,  _cara_  Emma. May we have the privilege of being in your company―"

"Soon," August interrupts. He glares at Killian, who is nearly scowling. "Very soon." Not very inconspicuously, Marco nudges him in the ribs. "Would you like me ― ahem,  _us_  ― to escort you home, Miss Swan?"

Her hair falls down her shoulders when she bends her head, curls shaking as she politely declines.

Thanking her for her time and courtesy, they both make their way to the beachside as well, hands in their pockets. Pulling her scarf tightly about her neck, wishing she wasn't so foolish to leave her bonnet at home, Emma immediately chooses the quickest path that will take her back to the cottage. Consumed by her own passing thoughts, she doesn't hear the heavy footsteps behind her until she crosses the main street and takes a smaller road.

* * *

" _Emma_."

No, not him.  _Please_ , not him. But she knows that if she continues to ignore him and keeps walking, he can make this into a public scene. And he would care less.

But she cares about her reputation, so she stops and swivels to face him, heels digging into the muddy dirt. "Leave me alone," she commands icily.

He doesn't falter for a moment. "Love, I needed to see you." She glances up, stricken by his deprecated tone of voice. "I  _had_  to see you, Emma. Don't go, lass."

She rolls her eyes, her insides screaming at her to not heed his words. "I can do as I wish, Killian ― and believe me, you are the last person I wish to see today."

His half-smile is cynical. "At least I'm last and not obliterated completely from that list," he counters weakly, coming closer to her. "All I want is a moment of your time―"

"And why, pray tell, should I give that to you?" she retorts, crossing her arms over her chest.

He is growing angry because of her repeated rejections. She can tell. "You spoke to August," he snaps, "so why won't you speak to me?"

She scoffs at his reasoning. "Oh, let me spell it out clearly for you, since you have failed at reading me." She counts out on her fingers, "You yelled at me. You threw me out of your house. You treated me like I was nothing. You were rude. And all because I saw a  _painting―_ "

"You bloody deserved it for invading my privacy!" he explodes.

"I was a guest in your home," she shouts back, feeling the urge to run. "The least you could have done was told me why I did wrong. Instead, you tossed me to the side like so much refuse and treated me as if I were not worthy of your confidence or your trust at all. Instead of being the gentleman, you were the scoundrel."

He doesn't look like he is going to yield to her point of view. Lifting an eyebrow, he darkly quips, "I prefer dashing rapscallion."

Throwing her hands in the air from exasperation, she shakes her head before proceeding down her route. But still, he follows. All the way up to her door.

When she tries to slam it shut in his face, he prevents her, pinning her against the wood with his arms on either side of her. His stump is not far from her cheek, while his entire hand twitches near the other, as if his fingertips are longing to reach her skin. "You don't understand, love," he whispers, rage gone.

She slackens her stiff posture, willing the familiar heat of their proximity to dissipate. It doesn't. God, this is so inappropriate, so intimate, so  _wrong_. But she doesn't feel ashamed. Only... _confused_. And aching inside.  _She broke what little trust he gave her. Then again...he shattered what little of her heart she had shown him._

"Then please,  _help_  me to understand," she murmurs back, wishing this ill will between them didn't exist. In spite of all her denials and her vows to forget him, she can't stop being drawn to him, like a moth to a flame.

His lips dip down, so near her mouth that she can feel his slow breaths, this warmth causing her skin to tingle. "I'm afraid, darling," he admits softly, this confession throwing her off guard. Her defenses lower slightly, but she's still wary. Unless he can conquer his own fears... Well, how can she trust him, if he doesn't trust her? It does not work that way.

If a kiss would make their problems disappear, she would do so in a heartbeat. But that's not the life they know. So she replies, "Perhaps we shouldn't see each other anymore." She angles her head so that their faces are much farther than an inch apart. "We're hurting each other, Killian. It's ― it's not right. Not good, for either of us."

His fingers finally brush against her jaw, caressing right down to her chin. "I'm truly sorry I've caused you pain, Emma." His voice is so close to her ear, almost a thrum. "I shouldn't have lost my temper with you." When his cheek presses ever so gently against hers, framing one side of her, his face almost buried in the crook of her neck, a fractured sigh escapes her lips. "I'd forgotten you understand, better than anyone, the sufferings of a broken heart."

"How do you know," she swallows hard, "that my heart's been broken?" The planes of his body are aligned with hers, and if it wasn't for how he was leaning over her, cautious not to touch her or press against her, he would be literally on top of her.  _Covering her. Shielding her. And she would like to be protected, after fighting for so long. What could it be like, to just let go and let herself be taken care of?_

"The look on your face when you held that letter, the day you were in tears by the door when David and I came to escort you." He gulps. She feels it. "It's what I see in my mirror everyday. I grew to hate my reflection until I covered it up ― in more ways than just the one. The room you saw...it's where I store my wounds. When the door opens, even for me, the scars are ripped away, and I...I feel it all over again. That... _heartbreak_."

Killian pulls back, and she can see his features, how tortured they are by his long-lived anguish. "Do you want to talk about it?" she offers. Vaguely, her back begins to cramp from its awkward position.

He sniffles, smiling sadly. "Not today." Then his eyes flicker to hers, and she cannot breathe again. "But I will."

Her forehead rests against his. He shudders, but Emma takes his lonely hand in hers and rubs her palm over his, thinking less of  _improper_  and more of  _caring_. "When you're ready," she affirms.

He echoes her own words back at her.  _When she's ready to forgive him, she will._

* * *

He kisses her hands before he says good-bye, and though he casts a longing perusal inside her abode, she needs to be alone today. Perhaps not tomorrow, or the day after that. But for now, yes.

Naturally, he  _has_  to make a comment about her singing and piano performances, complimenting her highly with so much enthusiasm that she blushes. Still, she doesn't want him to imagine for a moment that she  _despises_  him ― that she's not willing to move past this disruption of their would-be friendship.

First, she promises she'll come to dinner at Mary Margaret's home the day after tomorrow, as an invitation has been extended to Emma through Killian.  _David thought himself very clever, didn't he?_  Then she grabs the first object that comes to mind, the first thing in view. A peace offering. A symbol.  _A symbol of hope._

She peeks out the door as he snuggles into her favorite white blanket, cradling it in his arms as if it were made of glass and not the finest cotton.

It isn't until she drops into her wicker chair, smiling till her cheeks might crack from the strength of it, her heart about to burst, that she sees the letter on the ground, hidden partially by the inside doormat.

She would recognize that handwriting anywhere.

Finally.

_Graham._


	8. Step by Step

_Dependable. Reliable. Stalwart. A pinnacle of fortitude._

_Emma clutches the book to her chest and sighs dramatically, reliving the chapter she just perused. If only Marianne were not so foolish to fall in love with Willoughby ― then, perhaps, the author might have graciously introduced more of Colonel Brandon's background, his interests, his pursuits, his thoughts..._

" _Enjoying your latest adventure?"_

_Her novel drops to the carpeted floor with a heavy thud. Slowly, she bends down to pick it up, composing her features before facing the person who has interrupted her fantasy world._

" _Graham," she smiles, desperately trying to dispel the flush in her cheeks. "What brings you here?"_

_He gives her a lazy smirk of his own, one eyebrow raised as he glances at the spine of her current read. "May a student not seek out his teacher?" His smile becomes smug. "Though this is my library, you know, and―"_

_Emma playfully aims at his shoulder with the back cover of the volume, solidly smacking him into silence. "You behave like such a child at times."_

" _Do I?"_

" _Yes. And truth be told, you can be very annoying at times. Fortunately, I have enough patience to withstand anything," she counters, tipping her nose into the air with mock regal authority. Repartee with Graham is like a cool glass of punch on a hot summer day. She doesn't have to worry about him hurting her, or breaking her heart ― because she is his tutor, and he respects her, which precludes any nonsense of that kind. Neal taught her very well about matters of the heart...too well, in fact._

_Slowly, her obstinate pupil leans forward, smirking as he bends his head and his forehead nearly brushes hers. For a moment, Emma feels sudden heat from his gaze, his skin exuding a burning wave of warmth that speaks of something other than fever or too much sun. It becomes so hard to breathe when he renders her speechless by dipping down, cheek by hers, and..._

_He slips his hand among her eager fingers and deftly grabs her book, as quick as you please. Her reflexes are too stunned to act, and she gapes at Graham while he pulls a bookmark from his pocket, affixes it between the last pages she read, and snaps the cover shut._

" _Reading, reading, reading ― always reading, Miss Swan," he tsks at her. "Normally, I'd highly approve, but what of the picnic I promised, hmm? Our luncheon awaits, milady."_

_Pursing her lips, she quietly watches as he puts the novel back in its designated spot, already wondering when she'd have a chance to peek at its contents again. Days were always filled with endless discovery, for this student of hers wants to know everything, motivated beyond the usual. Isolation and neglect ― not to mention ghastly family affairs since childhood ― could do that to a person._

_If one could compare the eagerness for knowledge to thirst, then Graham has not drunk his fill since his boarding school days, which he said he hated with a vengeance anyway. He claims she is his first genuine teacher and that he loves taking this journey with her, because he would have no other companion but the one who is devoted to not only being his guide in learning, but also his friend and confidante._

_And above all...he values her presence here. The house, in all its vastness, seemed dark and chilly when she first came, hat in hand. Now, the curtains have been lifted, the windows washed, the stuffy indoor air freshened with new wind. Delicious flowery scents drift down from their orchard, and with their fields in bloom, the estate is like a fairy tale land, a wisp of splendor unequaled by anything she has seen before._

_Of course, she wants to go on that picnic. Though knowing this young man, who is more of a blushing schoolboy that he cares to admit, they will be gazing at ― and sketching ― quite a few plants, trees, and other botanical wonders before they return to have dinner with his mother._

_Instead of questioning her silence, Graham merely offers her his hand. It is so simple a gesture ― amicable, innocent, gentle..._

_Affectionate._

_And that is what frightens her. She hopes she is wrong, that this is just brotherly comradeship, that his eyes don't invite other feelings into play as his soft stare is akin to what she would call "longing."_

_Longing for what, she knows not. She can only wait and see...and pray that she is misreading his intentions and that nothing has changed._

_Her hand meets his, sliding into an unbreakable clasp, and then together, they move toward the door._

_Out into the great unknown, whose boundaries are their own minds and hearts._

* * *

Emma reluctantly sets her wine glass back down, aware that if she plays with it anymore, some terrible accident will happen. Either she'll drop it on the floor, or spill it across the tablecloth, or toss the contents into the face of the person at her right.

Most likely that last option, which is still viable.

It was supposed to be a quiet dinner with only her, Killian, Mary Margaret, and David. Just the four of them, so there would be no unrest, no incivility, no discomfort, no unfamiliarity.

She never expected to be sitting next to August, of all people ― and he is talking incessantly, like a jaybird or raven that won't quit its annoying chatter. He is likeable, agreeable, even...but currently, she can't stand the sound of him. As for her hosts, David tries his best to engage Killian in a heated discussion about off-season farming and the questionable benefits of using fish innards for manure. Meanwhile, Mary Margaret is being the perfect hostess, fussing about her tiny kitchen, ushering plates back and forth, and serving new dishes.

Once she can get her friend alone, she is most certainly wheedling out exactly how August got himself invited.

And as for herself, she is stuck in the middle between two men, one whom she has just met and the other whom she... Well, she doesn't rightly understand what it is that she feels for Killian, but certainly not the irritation springing in her chest as August talks over her for the twentieth time (yes, she  _is_  counting). When David finally notices the tension brewing at his fiancé's table, he gets up suddenly and offers her some much-needed aid in cleaning her sink. That leaves Emma alone with her would-be suitor and her secret admirer, who might be her friend and could be much more.

While August eyes the upcoming dessert platter with anticipation, Killian leans toward her, mouth by her ear as discreetly as he can manage in such a small breadth of space. "Dear Emma, I was hoping that tonight, I'd have the opportunity to speak privately with you, but...I could not have predicted this turn of events," he whispers. "Perhaps...you'd do me the honor of letting me call on you sometime this week?"

She nods her head dumbly, getting more desperate by the minute when the carpenter begins to comment on the quality of Mary's apple pie. It's not that the man is a bore or bad company...it's just that she wanted to be closer to her friends ―  _and to Killian_  ― this evening, and August interrupted her plans. She's never liked when her plans were disrupted. Glancing at the both of them, she grits her teeth together and focuses on not cutting her slice of the scrumptious-looking pastry into pieces with her fork.

A trick Emma learned well as a child, shuffling from orphanage to orphanage and from possible home to next possible home, is how to shut out the world from your hearing, blocking out sound and then light until all you can see is a figment of reality. It's like peering through a kaleidoscope, where colors get blurred and everything is muddled ― her secret place, where no one can hurt her.

Unfortunately, that didn't work more often than it did. Usually, her inattentiveness would earn her slapped cheeks and boxed ears from her adoptive parents, or kicked shins and poked ribs from her new siblings. On gazing back into her past, on opening that door and feeling all the moments of pain she'd like nothing more than to forget, she cannot recall any happiness in her life before she entered the boarding school that changed her forever...

"Can I take your plate, Emma?"

Mary Margaret is gazing down at her, warm smile and kind eyes dispelling her current memories. Blinking hard, she tries to recover from the brunt of the blow her daydreaming has given her. "Certainly." She hates the way her response comes out as a mumble. Have all her trials really beaten out the fight from her, that she no longer wants to war onward, trampling over suffering because she is better at falling and picking herself up than at stumbling down and lying in the dust?

How  _weak_  she is. How horribly  _small_  and  _pitiful_. Emma lets her hands rest on her lap, fingers clenching into tight fists as loathing and rebuke creep into her veins and roar loudly, drowning out the happy atmosphere around her.

She got herself into this. She agreed to―

"So, how is school, Emma?" David is grinning at her, looking as if he has not a care in the world, eyes bright and clear and expectant. Or perhaps that disarming, charming smile of his is simply natural, uninfluenced by his worries.

 _Oh dear God_. Now all three men are staring at her, August included. They are silent and waiting on her answer. She manages a brief "fine" before she can't take the sudden attention any longer, erupting out of her chair and heading straight for the fireplace.

The bricks' edges, rough and sharp, brush against her palm as she grips the shelf jutting out of the wall. It is topped by Mary Margaret's mementos: a small figurine of a horse, a jewelry box, an apple sculpted out of crystalline glass. There's a small portrait, framed, of her and David, faces pressed together as they stare out at the one who captured them. Even though it is more sketch than finished drawing, she can see love in their gaze, even though the black and white limits of charcoal and pencil cannot do the feeling justice. And then...there's a bracelet, hand-woven and whose design can only be Killian's, raw materials and signature wild essence in the craftsmanship, white pearls and black onyx interspersed among wooden carvings and wool yarn.

Another reason why she does not belong here. She was deluding herself, before. Even though this couple has graciously made her a part of their family, welcomed her into their homes, given her their trust. Even though perhaps there are people willing to let her into their lives.

But that's the problem precisely.  _She_  can't let anyone in. Not again. Never again. She would rather bury her pain deep in her heart, shut it away so that not even she can find it, and go on without it ― like she has done with all she's had to endure, every last bit of suffering that walked across her path and left its mark. She dares not confront the memories, dares not open the Pandora's box of old that has settled its claws into her. If the box is opened, trouble will come out. That is how it has always been with her: nothing good ever lasts.

David's question comes back to her, and its answer only confirms her doubts. The school is, frankly, a failure. Every minute she is in the classroom is either one where she subdues her reluctant students into digesting their lessons and pretending to listen to what she says, or where they completely ignore her, turning learning time into mayhem. She can't make them obey, can't motivate them, can't connect to them. They judge her an outsider, a stranger, and they see nothing more than a powerless woman trying to instruct them in subjects and topics and undertakings they'd rather not have at all. One rather hurtful example is how she stayed up all last night to copy three different songs onto the sheet paper she bought from Marco and August, transferring the music relentlessly over and over again until she had roughly enough to hand out to every single child.

She'd never forget the sight of the music sheets fluttering to the floor when class was done, call and yells and shouts echoing still in the wake of her students running out the door, a storm of white in their place as the triumphant escape took place. When she had collected all the paper, some had muddy footprints, while the other were horribly bent and illegible. Staring out with the treble clef scale and explaining musical terms was a good beginning, but she might have been speaking about the weather for all they cared. Only the younger ones joined in when she murmured  _do-re-mi_  and sang up and down the first octave.

This is a foolish regret, she knows. They are  _children_. Village children, whose knowledge of music is limited to the jigs and tunes and shanties and reels played at the scarcity of events in such a small town. But at least they could... _try_. She wants to educate them, to open their minds to literature and art and everything beyond the town borders.

But she's out of reach. They're out of reach. It seems utterly impossible to get through to them ― and she cannot ask anyone for advice for fear of losing her position. So she is going to keep on teaching the townsfolk's offspring as she sees fit, because this is the end of the line for her.

It is her fault that she didn't accept Graham's offer. It is her fault that she insisted on coming out here, to the middle of nowhere.  _To have a new beginning_ , she excused.  _No ― to be as far from Neal as possible, in the hopes that he would never find her._

It was at times like these that she thought herself a coward. Damn that letter, for making her regret and regret and  _regret_ ―

A warm palm slides across hers. The soft, warm touch, in contrast to her cold skin, makes her gasp in surprise. "If you want, for any reason, to leave...it would be my pleasure to escort you home." Killian's brogue rolls over the words, ringing with sincerity. " _Emma_."

The sound of so many people, in such a short while, using her Christian name as if they have known her for years... It is a little overwhelming. The small cottage is too crowded, with so many feelings and thoughts throwing themselves at her head while August tries to get to better acquaint himself with her and Mary Margaret with David try to make her feel at ease and Killian―

 _Killian_.

When she turns, he's looking at her intensely, as if in physical need of her response but still asking for it, with no demands. Perhaps, with the way his own eyes reflect hers, he is seeing her heart in her gaze, where she is as conflicted as a bird caught in a bramble of thorns. To break free always hurts. To stay is safe, but no better than an unspoken gaol.

Then a second voice enters the fold. "Miss Swan...are you alright?" August appears to be very concerned over the spectacle she'd made of herself, and to be honest, she is as well. What does the carpenter's son think of her now? In an instant, she stiffens, and she is certain the man beside her can feel her annoyance through the change of her grip on his hand.

"I―" she begins, but Killian cuts between her words.

"Miss Swan wanted to speak to me about―" He's clearly struggling for an excuse, twitching frantically, scrambling for the right pretext. "About―"

She's all for that worn-out piece adage that says " _think before you speak_." This evening, her mouth takes the opposite advice into account. "―about my portrait." Flashes of color, the masterly blending of them, the swirls of half-dried pastels and strokes of smooth charcoal, the well polished edges of one particular frame...the images flew past her, so she picks herself up and continues this singular idea that advanced out of nowhere. "I've," she licks her dry lips to regain her speech and her courage, " _commissioned_  Mr. Jones here... To paint my portrait."

No proposal in all the world could render the four individuals before her, master painter included, more aghast or mute or utterly  _shocked_.

One sentence has given Killian Jones the ability to see her often and without qualms. One sentence has altered their fragile relationship, shifting it on its axis again with the tentative hope that her choice wouldn't cause it to crash.

One sentence is all it takes, as she has found out during her life, to make a difference, good or bad.

It is against all propriety. The townspeople will gossip. The minister will reprimand her. People will shun her.

Frankly, she doesn't care.

* * *

"Are you sure about this, love?" And so, Killian quickly mentions what she fears to admit.

Her hand is tucked into the crook of his elbow as he guides her back to her house, his bold stare glittering in the dark. His other arm is currently supporting a small lantern, which lights the way so neither of them trip over their own feet.

She peers up at the stars, tired of the beam of golden flame dancing in her eyes. As resilient and aloof as ever, they stand watch over her, the only constant she has.  _Nothing is impervious to change, Emma_ , a familiar voice echoes. "I've never been so sure of something in my entire life," she asserts, pleased that her tone is firm and strong and not breaking under the strain of her boast.

Walking up to her door, he releases her hand and raises his to knock, pausing abruptly when he realizes the inhabitant of said residence is right next to him, quite amused and grinning like a fool.  _She is a fool, for seeing how handsome he looks despite how tired he sounds, bathed in the shadows of the night and candlelight. For wanting to run a hand through his hair and caress his forehead, like she did for Henry and Roland, always disobeying her better judgment in feeling too much and too deeply. But he is not hers. He belongs to someone else._

_And...she is not his. Though the little girl inside her has desperately wished to be wanted and to belong. For years. Forever._

"I don't have much...money..." Emma clears her throat, shame rushing through. "But I'll pay you what I can, when I can manage it." Her instincts then tell her he is standing closer to her, leaning in, feet shuffling over her outside mat. Hastily, she opens the door and ushers him inside, sealing them away from wind and cold. The first thing he does is place the lantern down on her table. On top of the letter.  _Graham's letter. God, she doesn't want Killian to see it..._

"Lass...I don't want your money." She opens her mouth to protest, but he is faster. "I will admit...that I'd love...that I'd  _like_...that..." He sighs, as if surrendering to she knows not what. "No matter. I understand why you gave that excuse, so there's no need to hold to your word. If it were I," he grumbles, "I'd sooner tell that wooden puppet to go plant trees then allow him to pry into my affairs."

His charming metaphor provokes a giggle out of her, saddened and agitated as she is. But eventually, she awakens, meditating on his reply. She doesn't have to do this. He was allowing her to exit quietly.

Why then did she not want to?

"Would it...would it be untoward if I said...that...I do want you?" She gulps when an unnameable emotion flickers in a brief glance from him. "To do my portrait, I mean."

Shaking his head, he shrugs ― a little too nonchalantly, in her opinion. "You would need to sit for me at least twice a week," he says in that husky timbre of his. "And it would have to be in my... _studio_...as I have all my art supplies stored there. You would be...spending more time in my company." He crosses his arms over his chest, his stance becoming defiant. "The question is, would you be willing to commit to that?"

Her vision narrows. "You make it sound like a contract, full of obligations."

Cocking his head, he leers at her, his answer an obvious challenge. "For an artist, art is precisely that. It is a bond that cannot be broken."

It is unfortunate that she is hearing beyond that, reading between the lines. "Listen, and listen well," she counters, her temper rising at the thought that he wasn't taking her offer seriously. "You  _will_  paint my portrait. I  _will_  come to your house and pose for you. I  _will_  pay you for your time and work. And you  _will_  stop questioning my motives for this."

Huffing, she uses a precious match to ignite her firewood, bringing the glow of heat to the one-roomed dwelling. When she is confident that has been accomplished, she finishes her retort with a decisive flourish. "Killian...I care less about villagers talking, reeds whistling, or stormy days. Don't you see?" she whispers quietly. "I have learned long ago that one's reputation is like a flimsy piece of cloth hung on a clothesline. When it gales and the wind whips it about, that is how secure your name is. You try to protect it, but it's for naught. Only by doing and saying nothing can you ensure that you will be faultless and blameless."  _How did he manage to be this near, that he could reach out and stroke her cheek, or fan his breath over her lips?_

"Aye...that is true." Slowly, he pulls back, his stare unwavering. "You are quite the wonder, aren't you, Swan?"

A bout of shyness causes her to blush, and she peers down at the floor. "I didn't mean to―"

"No, you are right," he interrupts, combing his hair with his fingers. When he scratches behind his ear, she knows whatever he has to state next is difficult for him to reveal. "I have been...vexed all too much by what others have thought of me and my actions. My pride..."

"You do not need to explain. Especially...not to me." She exhales shakily, worried that he will ask about the true explanation behind her behavior at Mary Margaret's home, that he wants to know why she is insistent about going through with the portrait.

Is it selfish of her to want to return to that haven of his up on the hills and by the cliffs, when pure ocean guards you? Is selfish of her to want to spend some unadulterated time with him, even though he will not be doing her a favor but merely completing an assigned task?

_Only time will tell._

Killian seems to concur with her unspoken conclusion, biting his lip and glancing at the door. "Well, then..." He swallows hard. "I suppose...I'll be hearing from you soon."

She nods. But as he fiddles awkwardly with the doorknob, letting himself out, she finds she can't respond. Should she respond right now?

"Good night, Swan," he murmurs. Then he faces her, a trace of a smile on his lips. "Oh, and one more thing."

Striding up to her so rapidly that she barely has time to inhale, he brushes one kiss over each of her cheeks, sweetly and slowly and innocently.

One eyebrow raised, his wide grin contrasts with her stunned gape afterwards, especially when her jaw drops open during the realization that yes, he must have felt that morning kiss she gave him all those days ago.

Apparently, he is returning the gesture. With interest.

And when he's gone, a breathless "Oh, I  _will_  be seeing you tomorrow, my Swan" and a very cheeky wink later, she is frightened to discover that she never wants him to stop, if that is how he always kisses.

It wasn't a declaration of love, surely.

But it was closest sign of affection that anyone's given to her in months and months and  _months_.

Since before Graham. Since before her whole world tore apart.

_These appointments with an adept artist with an angel's smile might prove to be the highlight of weeks to come._

_Strangely, she cannot convince herself that this decision is, in any way, wrong._

_In fact, it cannot be more right._


	9. Here and Now

_She is lying in a field of very colorful wildflowers. When the wind blows, quivering blades of grass tickle her nose, eliciting a smile from her now twitching lips._

_This is heavenly. The rushes nearby, surrounding a secretive glade, are whistling a plaintive tune. Bullfrogs are croaking merrily. Larks and sparrows chirp at each other, and occasionally, a duck quacks, no doubt having found some sorry fish to gobble up._

_To her, it's almost as if nature is decrying its loneliness, but at the same time, reveling in it._

_Indeed, it never felt so good to be alone. And the great, empty blue sky above her seems to agree..._

"You've moved again." For all the supposed irritation in his tone, Killian doesn't look upset with her. On the contrary, there is the most mischievous grin on his face, and he seems to be biting back a laugh with his teeth. Such white, gleaming teeth that match the light in his eyes, one that scintillates as his hand waves about a long, sleek horsehair brush.

Huffing slightly, Emma shifts on the wicker chair, moving the seat cushion in the wrong direction and off the edge for the  _thousandth_  time. " _You_  try to be a model and see what it's like," she mutters quietly, feeling her entire body flush under his close scrutiny.

He appears to be undismayed by her temper. "Ah, but wasn't it you, my dear, who agreed to be my model?" His dark eyebrows lift in unison. "This is  _your_  commission, after all―"

Abruptly, she stands ― her feet protesting at the sudden change ― and strides up to the only window in the room.  _Enough_. Enough of sitting still, reining in her emotions, putting on a blank face. It may have only been a few hours, but inside, she can feel the frantic beat of her heart, growing more and more restless with each passing minute.

_Sit still and be a good girl. Only good little girls get adopted, Swan. Only good girls deserve a home, a family._

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Emma sighs. Then a blanket of heat covers her right shoulder, and she knows her painter is beside her.

"We can do this as slowly as you wish, Emma. There is no rush to finish." Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Killian smirk while another thought occurs to him. "Unless you have a flock of suitors you want to give this portrait to?"

Her lips curl upward. "Are you to be my Penelope, then?" she suggests teasingly. "Unraveling my image every night so that dawn always promises a fresh start and certain delay?"

She hopes that the pointed reference to antiquity will amuse him, since he appears to be quite educated. Instead, he is taking her question ( _clearly rhetorical_ ) seriously, mouth agape and breath shortened. Head bowed, he murmurs, "Interesting comparison, Swan," before also peering through the glass windowpane and settling his focus on the shimmering waves of ocean far beyond.

"How did you learn?" When he glances at her curiously, she clarifies, " _When_  did you learn...art?"

He shrugs. "Like with music, you can't  _learn_  art. You can only learn  _technique_  ― and master it."

"Alright, I meant  _that_. Did you study to be an artist?" she presses, realizing after she's spoken that poking at his past is a dangerous scheme. As with the accident of viewing Milah's portrait, he could be angered by her impertinence once again.

Or not.

Or there could be tit for tat when he gives as good as he gets.

However, in his response, there is only an underlying sadness, a tale of loss rather than gain. Shadow falls over his expression, darker than that of his short beard. In one speck of time, her connection with him is broken.

"No," he says hoarsely, staring down at the floor...and then at his non-existent left hand. "It was long ago ―  _that_  was someone from long ago." She has a feeling he is not speaking about himself... "That ― that  _person_  ― the man I was... He is dead to me. He's gone." He gestures to his maimed arm, the haunted room, the lonely house. "And these infernal wrecks are all that remain."

* * *

His boots thump against the wooden planks, and the way he practically throws his paintbrush into the cup of water, set aside for rinsing it, speaks of discouragement, of disgust. When he makes his path toward the door, Emma struggles to catch up to him.

He is faster.

Nevertheless, she will not stop following him. She cannot, if she is to come again. Leaving someone alone when they need to  _not_  be alone... There is no greater sin.

There he goes, ducking under the main archway and striding into the sunlight. He runs past a sparse garden she did not see last time she came, and then they're right in front of the lighthouse itself, bare and bright white and tall as the trees. Killian disappears into the only entrance the edifice has, not closing the imposing door.

She takes that as a sign to keep going. Calling out his name, she winds about the narrow spiral staircase, ascending the steps carefully until she reaches the uppermost floor.

* * *

These bloody memories must die. Because otherwise, they will bloody kill him.

_Breathe in. Breathe out. No sense getting excited._

Killian leans his forehead against the warm glass, his sole hand gripping the railing until his knuckles turn white.  _Everything he was...it was over. He would never be that person again._

"I'm sorry."

Her soft apology, a whisper that clings to his ears, is almost like a sweet caress, bringing him back from the darkness of recollection. All she wanted was to learn more about him ― just as he badly wants to learn more about her.

He can still picture her features spread out on his canvas, a preliminary sketch rubbed across the stretched cotton fiber. He used charcoal for the outline, but soft lead sticks for the finer details. Currently, his drawing is that of a woman ― the lines are not very clear, but clear enough that anyone could guess that the subject is quite beautiful.

_So very beautiful._

Emma Swan must be from where the best dreams originate, because those flaming emerald eyes and striking golden curls cannot be anything but celestially given. She is clad in a simple dress, the brown accents and green fabric making her look like a sprite from the woods. Her lips are pursed into a firm pout, and her hands are clasped demurely in front of her. However, her gaze is tinted with an unmistakable look of worry, and he cannot help but wonder if she cares about his outburst. If she cares about  _him_ , even a little.

How long has it been since he has had a fellow soul to talk to besides David and his betrothed?

How long has it been since he has felt part of something rather than always being on his own?

He cannot deny his body's longing for her, the magnetic pull between them like that of a compass' arrow and true north. Even now, when she draws near him, the faint scent of her flowery perfume and the gentle touch of her hand over his makes him light-headed.

Like a veritable force of nature, she is reeling him in. And she doesn't even realize what power she holds over him.

"You," he chokes out, his voice strangely hoarse, "you have nothing to be sorry for."

She half-smiles, but he can somehow sense that it is done sadly. "I shouldn't be so inquisitive. It's something that has always gotten me into trouble."

Heat stirs down below, racing upward, and he can only keep perfectly still as Emma brings herself to be only a hair's breadth away from him, right within his reach. Those rosy lips part, and he wonders what they would feel like on his skin. His heartbeat stutters for a moment when she tilts her head. Then his pulse becomes frenetic as she moves forward.

_Closer and closer._

Every eyelash is in view ― every curve of her cheeks, every sweep of her brow. If he lifts his hand, his fingers could brush back the errant hairs hanging over her forehead, as well as the ones dangling in front of her eyes. "You are no trouble." He gulps while she peruses his face, inch by inch. Suddenly, he is helpless. "Then again, perhaps you are," he amends weakly, despising the whimpers curling in his throat.

David was right. Why the bloody hell doesn't he work up the damn courage to ask if he can court her? Because right now, he could very well kiss her ― and it doesn't look like she would object.

_Pull her into his arms. Cover her mouth with his. Taste the sweetness of her, all while feeling her pressed against him. And best of all...when she would respond to him. All he can imagine about is the moment she will want him back ― and act on it._

But no, they are friends, by his own definition. If he dares to think of more, she will withdraw. And he will undoubtedly lose her for good.

He does not want that at all. He wants to be  _with_  her, not  _without_  her.

"Perhaps that will suffice for a first sitting ― for today." Very slowly, he pulls away ― stumbles backward ― and the very motion bloody  _hurts_.  _Besides_ , he growls at himself, _how could someone as vivacious and lovely as she ever be interested in a cripple like me? Bloody notion is absurd._

"Alright, Killian. But...may I...could I ask you for a favor?"

It takes his mind a moment to accept that this is Emma _._  Asking  _him_.  _Speaking_  to him. Being  _here_ , with  _him_. He finds the courage that has strayed and yanks it back to his side.

"Anything," he tries, mustering a smile. It does not stick for long.  _Hah, well, good riddance._  Smiles never fit well on his lips anyway.

She starts to speak, but a deep, angry growl interrupts first, rumbling against the glass.

* * *

"So you enjoy classical literature?" He is leaning by the table, his back supported by the edge. The old leather jerkin he wears to ward off sprays of paint, deeply brown and crinkled from age, wrinkles even more when he crosses his arms over his chest.

Emma tries not to stare at how the white shirt he wears also folds, the unlaced opening spreading wider apart to reveal bare skin beneath cloth. Keeping her eyes set on the teapot before her, she stirs and stirs the steaming water inside, pondering his question to avoid contemplating the warmth currently upsetting her stomach.

"I've always been partial to any books that are well written and meaningful." The long knife slices through the loaf of bread, the small round of cheese, and the lonely apple sitting on the stone counter. She peers again at Killian, comparing his physique to the solemn amount of food in front of her. Dear Lord, will he really survive the rest of the day on this small fare?

"Hmm..." Glancing down at the floor, he seems to ruminate on her words.

Meanwhile, Emma cannot help but notice how handsome he looks when he's so contemplative, pondering on how to answer her. The realization flusters her into a deep blush that warms her down to her toes. Then she too is gazing at something other than the charming artist who is now approaching her.

"It's just...  _Homer_ , lass. How did you suffer through it?" His smile contains laughter, but not the mocking kind. It is more a mixture of admiration and awe and genuine curiosity, all while she reflects on what is so audacious about a woman liking an ancient poet.

With a shrug, she dismisses the clear picture in her mind, where she and Graham sat beneath a weeping willow tree one afternoon, talking about the valor of  _Troia_ , and if such a glorious city ever existed to defy all of Greece. "The poetry was alright." Her nose wrinkles as she recalls the scenes of grisly killing in the Iliad. "I admit that...the recollections of horror and cruelty were hard to stomach, but such is the world."

She turns to him, gesticulating toward the sunlit window before them. "I am no expert, but when you step outside, no matter in which place, you accept that where there is life, there is much danger. Homer told the story of the times before him... He exaggerated, yes. His tone was often inflated. And he spoke of women as men tend to do: in judgment and not in fairness. But nevertheless..." She has a hard time meeting his eyes. "Both books are fine pieces of work."

It is hard to explain, but...his smile... It literally warms, from the inside out ― as if she has just righted his world by speaking her mind. "I agree entirely." His hand reaches for the two dishes lying on the wooden counter. "The relationships, however..."

"God, not  _that_." She grimaces in disgust. The corners of his lips twitch upwards. "Honesty and loyalty ― the two attributes his anti-heroes struggle so hard to possess."

"Anti-heroes?"

"Well, they were not heroes, despite what they proclaimed themselves to be!" She nearly knocks over the sugar bowl in her rising irritation at those damn men in the story.  _Damn this world, for putting women in a position of weakness akin to that of slaves._ "Penelope is an excellent example ― waiting endlessly for her husband, while he scoured the world during his adventures and dallied with other women without a second thought! But she had to fight off unfaithful suitors who were eating her and her son out of house and home ― for  _twenty years_!" she huffs, angry for one of her favorite characters.

Love can be so foolish, but...by the time you love someone, it can be too late to take those feelings back if circumstances change and the situation is not the way you would like it to be.  _That, she understands. Thank God marriage never made her list of mistakes._

One eyebrow arches, and his grin becomes... _naughty_ , like he has caught her believing something deemed wrong...and yet he  _approves_  of it. "Who exactly are you, Swan?"

She rolls her eyes. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

His stare softens in a manner that unnerves her entirely. "Perhaps I would." He pauses ―  _meaningful pause_  ― before he continues, "If you feel so passionately about the liberation of your sex, perhaps you should write about it."

She snorts. "No publisher would even consider it ― because I am a woman, and they are all  _men_. What man today would advocate that women be in control of their own lives?"

Killian looks down at the floor, mussed hair falling in front of his eyes as he peers up at her the next second. "A man...like me," he replies softly. "It's bloody  _bad form_  to keep children from their mothers and force wives to stay with their husbands because society―" His whispers are now a sharp hiss. "―those buggers and all their lies ― has decided so. Because they  _said_  so. Because their  _word_  is  _law_."

The pain in his voice speaks volumes beyond what he actually says. To Emma, there is only one reason why anyone would side with such ideas: that person has experienced, first-hand, the consequences of the world being as it is and not as it should be. From the way he is gnawing at his bottom lip, his gaze flickering between  _here_  and  _before_ , she can safely guess that he has many tales to tell. Many stories that he keeps buried in his memory, ones he has shut away for fear of awakening the two most fearful, terrifying things of all: guilt and regret.

"They took more than your hand from you, didn't they?"

He bows his head, not meeting her furtive glances. "Quite the perceptive schoolmistress, aren't you, Swan?"

"It's not just Milah you lost," Emma realizes. She wants so badly to touch him. To embrace him. To take him into her arms and let him rest his burdens there a little while, weigh them down on her chest so he can be free again, if only for a mere moment. "It's someone else. There's...there's more."  _More you're not confiding._

"Aye." He swallows hard, his chin trembling, face turned downward, and... "I have a brother. I mean ― I  _had_  one, once. He...his name was Liam."

_What should she do? He's trying so hard not to cry in front of her, to stay strong for her. To put on a good face. By all means, she should let him do this on his own. He wouldn't want her help, after all ― no man likes to be coddled, as they say?_

_But he's...he's breaking._

_And she doesn't want him to fall into pieces._

Beyond her own understanding, she is picking up her feet and traipsing over to Killian. Of their own will, her arms are thrown around his neck, and she is bringing him in until he is surrounded by all of her.

For the first time in years, she offers her embrace, with nothing held back.

His cheek, covered with dark stubble, is right by her neck as his lips brush over the crook of it, grazing her shoulder as well. At first, he hesitates to return her gesture, his maimed arm motionless at his side. But she dives under with her hands and draws both of his arms around her ― and then his face is enshrouded by her hair and her skin. She can hear him breathing in their scents... And is it just her imagination, or is he pressing kisses to every curl he finds?

Emma lets him seek her out. She lets him wrap himself around her as if they were reunited lovers, desperate for contact. All the while, he is exhaling raggedly, searching for that sense of bodily command that everyone needs when they are tearing apart. But what he needs most ― what he refuses to ask for ― is companionship that drives away ghosts and shadows.

"Emma," he rasps, " _Emma_ , darling, I'm sorry...I'm so sorry..." He chants her name over and over again, like she were his savior.

"Don't worry," she soothes. "I'm here...I'm not leaving..." Though she is a complete stranger, and her own body is reacting in the worst of ways to how having the flesh and soul of Killian Jones pressed against it. Fire is inching up every limb, and the burn transforms into a yearning so profound that she has to fight the urge to let him in further.

To give him the one thing she swore she would never give any man again:  _her kiss._

He  _needs_  to be kissed. And he needs to be  _held_. No, what this man really needs...is to be  _loved_. For it seems that there is no one left who cares for him, made out to be the villain in this small town at the ocean's edge.

Instead, she hides her desires, cradling him in her arms.

When he pulls back, wiping at his cheeks ( _as discreetly as he can manage it while she's right in front of him_ ), she suddenly loses the courage to face him.

His meal is spread out before him. She has already divided the bread and cheese and apple slices between the two dishes. The tea has brewed. All is prepared.

But her appetite is long gone. Fear is creeping in with the speed of a rushing current, and she is finding it hard to concentrate on anything but the path to the door.

She wasn't supposed to get attached. She wasn't supposed to  _feel_  for him. They're friends. She's not his  _anything_.

 _Don't run_ , pleads her conscience.  _Don't leave him here alone. He needs_ you _, Emma. He needs you to stay ― if only for a little while._

"I ― I need ― I need to go," she stammers out, wringing her hands together, cringing at the flash of hurt in his expression.

His hand is quick to grasp her chin and make her look into his eyes. That deep ocean-blue gaze, binding her to the house and the floor and  _him_  till there's no telling what she'll do, feeling so conflicted like this.

"There's no need to be afraid, love." He is staring hard, willing her to stand fast. "There's no need to escape. I won't hurt you ― I  _promise_  you that. Just... _please_...don't go."

Now it is she who cannot restrain her tears, wishing for him to see that she won't let herself get close to anyone if it means she could get hurt again.

Yanking herself out of his reach, she walks backward till she is right by the front door. She cannot look at him. It would be detrimental to her purpose.

"I didn't know you had a garden." This observation surprises even her. Offhand, she wonders where it came from.  _When she followed him to the lighthouse. Up on the lighthouse, she could see the sea, and the horizon, and it reminded her of...so, so much..._  "It must have looked lovely when it was alive."

His eyes narrow. "I...see."

She shakes her head rapidly. "No ― no, you  _don't_  see. The herbs are rotting. There are almost no plants left. The flowers are wilted." She sighs. "That's me, Killian. I came to Storybrooke for a fresh start. I wanted to uproot myself from what had caused my unhappiness. But it looks like I'm buried in  _that_  forever. That I cannot get away. That I cannot forget ― like  _you_  cannot forget. So you cling to whatever bits of what you loved are left, because you don't have anything else. For you, it's...your brother. Your Milah."

Her voice gets carried away by the wind when she opens the door. "The weeds are choking your garden. Soon, it will be a pile of dirt." When she glances at him, he looks absolutely stricken by her words. His reaction wounds her in turn, for it is all her fault.  _The twists and turns in my life...the choices...all my fault..._

"You shouldn't want me to stay. Not me. I'm nothing but one of those weeds...I don't know how to grow by myself. I ruin everything." She nearly chokes on her next statement, her vision becoming blurry. "You're better off without me."


	10. Wishes

It takes him all of five seconds to go after her.  _He will not let her slip through his fingers a second time._

His feet pound against the soft ground, encouraging him to go faster and faster until―

"Swan!" She keeps walking, so he keeps running. "Swan, don't do this!"

When he is finally close enough to touch her, she spins back, trying to evade him. "Killian..."

His blood boils at the sight of her tight frown. "No, lass ― I don't want excuses. I don't want for you to leave my home like you did last time, so that we couldn't even speak two words to each other for  _days_. I want you to  _talk_  to me."

"Don't be so dramatic," she snaps, tossing her hair back and crossing her arms over her chest. "If you'll recall, you  _expelled_  me last time I came here. This time, I'm doing us both a favor―"

"A favor? You think this a favor?" He can feel himself explode. "Emma, you are running away ― again ― and you won't even tell me why!"

Her eyes, so green like the sea of grass dancing about them, become glazed and downcast in an instant. He worries she is going to cry, because the sadness that hangs over her face like a veil is overwhelming. She must truly believe―

Gently, he cups her cheek and caresses it with his thumb, brushing off wetness as he does. Her skin is so soft and warm. So alive. So quiet above the surface. But her pulse is erratic. "Why on earth," he whispers, "do you deem yourself unworthy of even friendship?"

In the midst of such deafening silence, he finally notices how her dress is flapping in the wind, her hair only secured by the bonnet she hastily put on. How small they both are in comparison to the vastness below. Above, dark clouds hurry toward each other.  _A storm is coming..._

The way she is looking at him... He shudders. No woman has seen through him like this before. And with Milah...even now, he's not sure if she came to him because she loved  _him_  or the kind of freedom he offered her. Emma is a different picture. She speaks her mind, and when she does not, it is because she is keeping those thoughts to herself. She is no liar.

Slowly, he starts to back away, not wanting to frighten her or push her further. He wants her to feel safe around him, not ill at ease like most people in this wretched town.

His hand withdraws from her. Suddenly, Emma grabs it, intertwining their fingers. He can't take his eyes off her.

"I'm running away...because you and I...we're not that different. Not at all." Her voice is almost carried away on the wind, like chaff. It is soft and trembling and yet, so  _certain_ despite her spoken qualms about them.

Which is why Killian is completely taken by surprise when she surges forward and presses her lips against his.

* * *

His mind vaguely whispers excited approval before he gives in, slanting his mouth over hers. Dimly, he can feel how their joined hands fall apart, only for hers to curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, cradling his head, then sliding down to grab at the lapels of his shirt. His hand finds her waist, keeping her close to him, while his stump of an arm curls about her back.

For him, nothing else exists but this moment ― the moment that has occupied both his waking and most secret dreams.

What starts out as a gentle brush of their lips becomes much more. He cannot contain himself, not after she has initiated what he has wanted since the moment they met. His tongue dips out to beg for entrance to her mouth. With a low gasp, she opens, inhaling him.

His heartbeat is roaring in his ears, challenging him every step of the way. Emma tastes of rainfall and wet mornings, of warm tea and sweet honey, of sunshine and the sea, of summer grasses and lush flowers. She moans quietly when he tugs on her bottom lip with his teeth, drawing her into him again.

By God, he wants to kiss her again. And again. Until she can feel how much she is wanted and needed and  _bloody hell_ , he  _needs_  her―

" _Emma_." He cannot stop saying her name ― in his thoughts, in his blood, aloud. He's wanted this woman for too bloody long. So much desire should be  _forbidden_ , by all accounts.

Abruptly, she breaks away. Her lips are red and swollen, and she has a wild look about her, as if all air has been stripped from her lungs. She opens her mouth to speak, and he hopes ―  _oh, how he hopes in the first time for over a decade_ ― that she's going to say―

"This...this was a one-time thing." Her eyes are glossy.

In that instant, Killian finally understands what it means to have the ground pulled out from under your feet. He can hardly swallow, his throat dry and scratchy and void of words that can reach his tongue. "But..." he protests, touching his wet lips.

"No ―  _no_. I  _can't_  do this. Not again," she cries out weakly, covering her face with her hands. "Killian... I like you, but...I cannot take the chance that I'm wrong about you. Please understand me when I say that this  _cannot be_."

"Cannot  _be_?" He runs his hand through his hair. "It already  _is_ , Emma. I...I feel for you, lass―"

"Don't.  _Please_." Sniffling, she wipes at her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

He sighs deeply, searching through the pockets of his trousers. Finally, he catches the edge of his handkerchief. "Here," he offers, holding it out to her.

She is careful not to let his fingertips touch hers when she takes the cloth from him. "Always a gentleman," she murmurs, blowing her nose.

"Aye, always." The smile he forces onto his lips feels too much like a damn grimace. Perhaps it  _is_  better when they are fixed into a perpetual frown. More natural that bloody way.

They continue to stand there, she uncertain of what to do and he uncertain of what to say. All he can think of is how her lips felt against his, the sensation coursing through every inch of his body and his very  _bones_  like a bloody stroke of lightning.

All he wants is for her to change her mind and stay.

Ideally, she would decide to be his guest for dinner, he would walk her home, they would or would not repeat the day's result by way of good-night farewells, and the next day would promise such happiness anew. Of course, his life has a habit of turning in the opposite direction of what he desires.

Pulling her coat tighter around her, Emma coughs, unable to meet his gaze. Loose strands of her hair are tossed by the wind, and she shivers when it rustles her clothes.  _Damn it, she's getting cold_ , Killian rebukes himself. Then raindrops begin to fall, settling quickly into a fast drizzle. Their clothes are already getting damp from the light shower.  _Bloody hell._  What she needs now is a warm fire and hot tea and―  _To be with me_ , his mind quarrels.

"At least come back inside and dry yourself by the fire, Emma. Wouldn't want the town's only teacher to fall ill under my care, now would I?" The joking tone of his voice belies what must surely be showing on his face, the disappointment and sadness that he always tries to hide from the rest of the world. Not so with her. She is evoking all too much in him that should remain unseen, cynic that he is.

"Come now, lass. At least trust that I don't want anything to happen to you." Tentatively, he extends his hand to her.

Instead of taking it, she returns his used handkerchief to him. Lowering her head, she crosses her arms over her chest. The rain is making the ends of her hair curl. "You still don't see it," she whispers quietly, as if to the ground itself.

His stomach plummets. "And just what," he says between gritted teeth, "do you want me to see?" He waves at the house behind him, the jutting cliff to the north, the village of Storybrooke nestled among rolling hills. "This is where we are, Emma ― who we are. I, for one, am not going to  _apologize_  for meeting you ― and  _liking_  you, by God―"

"That's just it. This doesn't have to be where I am." She rubs at her shoulders, gaze fixed on at a point in the distance. "I should be...elsewhere."

If he thought his mouth was parched before, that wasn't until bloody now. " _Elsewhere_?" he gapes, swallowing thickly.

She smiles, but it is sad and concerned and  _so bloody unclear what the hell she is feeling in this moment―_ "Yes." Her voice wavers. "An...an old client...a student...has invited me. To leave Storybrooke."

"Oh? Perchance in need of your services again?" Killian clenches his jaw. It is most likely a  _male_  student, from the way her cheeks flush pink. "Let me guess: you want to accept. Because you want to escape from this damn place, as fast as your feet can bloody carry you, because...because what, Emma? Because your work here is unpromising? Or..." He licks at his lips. "Is there  _another_  reason?"

Her stare turns into a heated glare. "How presumptuous that you would dare think―"

"What should I think?" Even he can hear how defeated his tone sounds. God, he really  _has_  formed an attachment to her in such a short while. "I can see fear in your eyes, lass. It's there, now, when you look at me. I felt it before  _you_  kissed me."

She suddenly looks pained ―  _ashamed_. "Killian, I'm―"

" _No_." He hangs his head, shaking it. Drops of water roll into his open mouth, wetting his lips. "No, I don't want to hear those words." Gulping down a shudder, closing his eyes, he murmurs, "When do you plan to leave?"

She bites down on her lower lip. "I...I hadn't decided. Yet."

She kissed him. She befriended him. Bloody hell, what a goddamn fool he is, believing that for once, someone would choose  _him_ over anything. It wouldn't be the first time. And it probably wouldn't be the last time, either.

Not Milah. Not Liam. Not their parents. Not anyone. Killian will always be second-best, in the eyes of everyone.

Despite the gulf of silence between them, he still wants to reach out to her. Despite the way she has cast off any hope of feelings or regard for him, no matter how small or fledgling they might be, he still  _wants_  her. It's not just her body ―  _though he would be lying if he denied his desires_  ― it's her. Emma Swan, looking like a lost duckling, untethered to any house or home because she has none.

Just like him. How rare is that, to find someone like yourself, someone who  _understands_?

"So just what is all this about? You wanted a bloody taste of small town life?" Anger is rearing its head, making him see stars. "The portrait...our talks...some kind of inside joke? Did you make a bet with the townsfolk to see how far the one-handed drunk on top of the bloody cliff would come out of his shell? How far I can be pushed if offered a goddamn bone?"

It's an unfair accusation, and he  _knows_  it. But bloody hell, he's hurting and hurting  _and he cannot bloody stop hurting_. So he is lashing out blindly ― as blind as he has been to Emma Swan's true intentions.

She never wanted to be closer to him. She never wanted anything from him. What stings the most is that it is all his own fault that he is in pain ―  _again_.

He never learns his lesson, apparently.

Still a fool for women and their charms.

Still a fool for love.

But instead of biting back, she bursts into tears. And his heart, traitor that it is, breaks for her. How ironic that she comforted him moments before, but now she needs that reassurance like air to breathe. Around them, a light rainshower steadily becomes a solid downpour. And they are still bloody standing outside.  _Damn this town's fickle weather._

"Killian,  _no_ ," she sobs brokenly, " _of course not_  ― why would I ― you don't understand ― how I feel, being here. Every night...I keep seeing...the things I wanted to be...to happen...but they never did. I thought...getting away from it all...that it would help. But this place...it's too small. I can't get lost here, no matter how hard I try. Nobody wants me here either."

"It's okay to trust someone, Emma," he pleads fiercely. "You can trust me. Don't go, love...please don't.  _I_  don't want you to leave.  _I_  want you here. I  _want_  you to stay."

Finally, hiding her eyes, she whispers through her sniffles, "I don't want to go."

He hardens his tone, desperate to make her see reason. "Then don't."

* * *

_He can tell that the air is chilly by the way his breath gusts upward as white smoke, hesitating for just a second before it disappears completely. Well, that's what he gets for leaving the window open in the early dawn hours._

_Fumbling between the easel and his bed, careful not to touch the wet canvas, Killian searches the desk in vain for an unused cigar. All he is able to find is some leftover tobacco, squeezed in the bottom of an old snuff box. He inhales it deeply before tossing the box into the corner of the cramped studio flat._

_When he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his hair is terribly disheveled and his eyes are bloodshot. His head is pounding. Too much bloody rum and an overdue tab in the Jolly Roger have created the worst headache in the world. Is it normal for his vision to be so blurred around the edges?_

" _Oi, be bloody quieter, would you?" he yells at the walls when someone begins to knock, the noise damn persistent and good God, so damn loud._

_He abruptly flings the door open to find a windswept Milah on the other side. As she stares back at him wordlessly, he notices she's not dressed as she normally is when she comes to visit. No, today must be different, because she's come in all the finery her true status allows her ― diamond earrings, silk dress, fur cape around her shoulders, leather shoes from the finest store in town. He should know, having done enough window-shopping to last him a lifetime._

_But this time, she looks exhausted, dark circles blooming under her eyes. Her lips are pursed in a frown, but he can barely notice her expression, his gaze fixed on the sight of her heaving bosom. Her usual visits always meant one thing came first and others later, so could anyone blame him for having those kind of thoughts, eh? Her beauty is always first in his mind ― no other woman can compare._

_Not to mention that her cheeks are flushed and he wants to see that rouge complexion all over her body, to feel her arch into him as they share the comfort of his bed._

" _What an unexpected, but very pleasant surprise, love," he drawls, one eyebrow raised. "Won't you come in and join me?"_

_However, instead of starting their usual liaison, she is clearly anxious. Tapping her foot against the hard floor, breathing hard, running her hands through the curls hanging loosely over her shoulders in a stylish coiffure. He wants to see them bare, to have her uncovered skin in his sights, to have her unburdened and restless in his arms―_

" _Is it ready ― the painting?" she asks suddenly. Her tone is icy and distant._

_Deep in his gut, a sense of dread flares to life. He tries to push it away with a mask of nonchalance. "Aye, but I still need to varnish it so the pastels don't smudge in the future," he smirks. "But I was thinking on waiting and giving it a sibling portrait ― but with one major difference." He reaches for the folds of her dress, intent on making his point clear. "All of this would have to go, darling. You could leave the jewels on, though."_

_She doesn't laugh. No, she stiffens, visibly recoiling. He feels himself sinking, whatever perception he possesses now rising to the surface. "You're clearly drunk," she snaps, wading past him to eye the full easel. "Your humor is shot to pieces when you're drunk."_

" _Oi, why the foul mood, Milah?" he pouts, slinking forward to stand by her. "You always like my suggestions ― I admit, some of them were a tad foolish, but rather enjoyable nonetheless, for the both of us―"_

" _Killian..." She sounds impatient. He ignores this._

" _But that's the reason you keep coming back for more. Because unlike your spineless excuse for a husband, I'm willing to take risks. Am I right?" He licks his lips slowly, glad his shirt is open wide. "And, love, we've had so much fun already. Don't you recall the endless nights of me exploring the goddess that you are? Your head flattening my pillow because you couldn't get enough of my head between your thighs, or that time you were on your knees for me―"_

" _Stop it," she hisses. "Stop talking about this. If your neighbors hear you..."_

" _What?" he challenges. "Since when have you cared about that? You didn't enjoy it, enjoy me? On the contrary. You screamed for more...you always want more. But it's no surprise. You love what you get in my bed, as opposed to your own at home." And here they are, knifing each other over the same issue again. "And that's why I'm so goddamn confused, lass. When are you going to finally separate from him so you can be with me?"_

_Digging inside her crocodile skin handbag, Milah pulls out a wad of currency. "This is for the portrait ― and enough for the commission, the supplies, all of it. For everything you've done."_

_He grits his teeth together when she hands the money to him, the feeling of so many banknotes between his fingers weighing down his heart. Bloody hell, such a fine, hefty payment should be damn good news for him, not such desolation. "For the sex, as well, you mean?" Hurt flashes in her eyes, wide from shock. "Seeing as you want to make a clean break from your new bohemian lifestyle." He lifts up a hundred-pound note. "This is very nice...did old Rumple pull these from his special safe just for you?"_

_Finally, her cool façade shatters. Milah's tight posture slumps down, and the expression on her face is the very image of wretchedness. "Killian," she sighs, covering her face with her gloved hands. "This has nothing to do with you."_

_His jaw clenches. "Tell me, then, what this is about, love."_

" _I'm afraid...certain people are getting ideas. Not Rumple, but his...associates. Why, Cora approached me just last night at the dinner gala ― and she never, ever speaks to me ― and asked when she should expect to be invited to our house. For a viewing of the new family portrait."_

" _You told her?" he accuses, though knowing it is a ridiculous idea. Milah only told her husband that she was seeking out a painter of sorts, not that she had found him._

" _No, of course not ― how in God's name could you think that?" she shouts, pacing frantically across the room. "That's the thing ― she knows too much. Of course Rumple could have just told her the obvious...but I don't trust it, and I don't trust her. Cora's sly, a damn snake ― and she has history with him. She notices everything and says only what's to her benefit." Her hands are now clenched into fists. "All it could take is one choice word, and I'd be ruined!"_

" _But you have an excuse." He gestures at the painting. Inside, his chest constricts at the look of shame and despair on her face. He is the cause. He is her dirty secret. Damn it, he shouldn't be. She should choose him― "And besides, you said you were going to leave him anyway, so what's the worry?"_

" _My worry," she says bitingly, "is that he'll divorce me if he finds out the truth. And then...then I'd never be able to see Bae again."_

_Milah has professed her love for Killian many times. On her back, when he's on top of her. In the early morning hours, when dawn's breaking and the world is silent. In the heat of the night, when she sneaks into his flat and he finds inspiration in the way she smiles at him. And he believes in it. But he has always known, from the very first moment they met, that her love for him couldn't even begin to compare with her love for her son. Baelfire is why Milah has stayed with her husband all these years. However grudgingly, Killian admires her for this._

_But is it really so wrong that he wants to be first and not second in her heart?_

" _And how is the lad these days? Still playing with his trains and ships?" He tries to keep his voice light and unaffected, though he is anything but. "You rarely speak about him anymore."_

" _He's...he's doing alright. He's growing up so fast ― it's difficult to keep up with him sometimes." Her lips form a small smile for her child, clearly the apple of her eye and all that folk say about parents' attachments to their young._

_Killian wonders for a passing moment what it would be like to be besotted with a woman unfettered by previous responsibilities. Then he too glances at his portrayal of the lass before him, darkly beautiful as she unclasps her cape and then removes her shawl, pausing before she strides toward the window and closes it shut. Every step she takes is confident and sure, despite her words sounding otherwise._

_He wouldn't have her any other way that what she is now, complex and complicated and confusing and so bloody exasperating._

" _Look... Killian, I didn't come here to argue with you. I came to...to..."_

" _To finish this?" he offers, rubbing his neck with his hand. She gnaws on her bottom lip but doesn't answer._

_Instead, they both turn toward the painting, each of them seeing something different in what has been immortalized across the fabric canvas. His brushstrokes, her form. His vision, her passion._

_If Milah has made up her mind to cut their acquaintance off, there is really nothing he can do. He will accept her choice. He cannot fight for her if she asks him not to._

_But he wants her to choose him, to choose them. To not give up._

_He just needs to show her what is at stake if she doesn't fight for them._

_He's got to. Because he can't lose her._

_No matter the cost._

* * *

"Doesn't look like the bloody rain's letting up anytime soon, but the light in the lantern should hold," Killian declares as he clambers through the front door. Water gets everywhere from his drenched coat ― the rug beneath his feet has a damp spot and little puddles are starting to form around where he steps.  _His visit to the lighthouse was necessary_ , he said before.  _Sailors always need a guide at sea, during storm or calm._

Despite her previous misgivings, Emma feels fortunate to be safe and dry in the comfort of his house. The last thing she would want is catching pneumonia because she is too stubborn to admit when someone else is right.

She sighs as he struggles to disrobe, crossing over to help him remove his outer-garments. When his hood comes off, some of his hair is clearly dripping water right into his eyes. "I should have thought to get you a dishcloth or at least a small towel," she says with a soft smile. Of their own accord, her fingers groom the soaked strands, combing them to the side.

Killian's disarray reminds her of Henry and Roland, when they would coax her into letting them play in the rain and then treacherously stay outside too long, getting their heads and feet completely wet. But then they both would smile at her afterwards, mischievous but apologetic while she scolded them. She eventually relented and got them tea with biscuits, and they had too many rounds of storytelling in front of the parlor fireplace. Robin would come home from his business affairs in town and demand why there was water all the way from the bloody doorway to the carpet. The distraught expression on his face, so worried for the fate of the rugs, made all three of them laugh. Even without the presence of Regina, the boys looked quite happy. And for once, the Lord of Locksley smiled and let out a laugh of his own.

She loves those moments. The joy they brought her is part of her most secret memories, the ones she cannot afford to forget.

Reaching back to the present, Emma notices that Killian has sucked in a deep breath, standing stock still while waiting for her next caress. She bites her lower lip and slowly drops her hand from the crown of his head. Since they have met, they have touched more than many an engaged couple ― broken the rules of propriety and distance more times than she can count ― but every time it happens again, she cannot find it in herself to care. It is as if he absolves her from the need to pretend for the world, because he wants nothing but honesty from her. Reputation, gossip...those worries melt away and she is left with raw feelings and bare thoughts.

For a man to expect this kind of openness from a woman, even an acquaintance... It is truly rare. Most men of their times prefer flattery and lies as opposed to the truth.

She grins sheepishly, ducking her head. The faint flush of his cheeks means she must have been staring at him too long. When she dares to peek at him and gauge his reaction, he is smiling at her, with such brightness in his eyes. And his lips are red...red from the cold... _red from a kiss_...

He uses his teeth to peel off the stiff leather glove on his right hand. Her mouth goes dry. "You still want to leave, don't you?" he says, smirking.

Emma is startled back to life from her fixation. "N–no," she stammers, awkwardly stepping around him. Settling on the settee in front of the fireplace, she listens for the soft padding of his feet on the floor.

The cushions dip downward next to her. "It's perfectly alright to admit it. If I had let you leave when you wanted to, you would be nestled in your house right now, warm and dry," he drawls. "Not stuck inside ―  _unchaperoned_  ― with me."

"Let?  _Let_?" She pokes his shoulder with her finger, unable to keep the words in. He gives her a cheeky grin in return. "You didn't  _let_  me do anything. The only person who  _lets_  me choose is me. Besides," she huffs, tossing her head, "that chaperone business is nothing but nonsense. I've been alone with grown men before, and no harm came from it."

Killian wrings water from his left sleeve. As for the right...he gazes at it with evident frustration. Rolling her eyes, she just grabs at the offending cloth and takes care of the matter herself.

 _God almighty_. She is holding his arm. In her hands. His  _bare_  arm, for the sleeve rose up when she pulled it back and her fingertips are touching soft hair and curling around sun-darkened skin and―

Damn it, he is looking at her,  _again_ , as if he wants to kiss her.

Her worry is that if he does, she would let him. Not only let him ― she would kiss him  _back_.

It was so reckless of her to kiss him in the first place ― outrageous, forward,  _wrong_. So many adjectives to describe why she should not have done it.

Then she sees him in front of her, the shape of his mouth, those piercing eyes... And she imagines too much, wants to know too much. Excuses turn to dust.

_His face buried in the crook of her neck, teeth across her throat, lips racing upward to find her. His hand roving her body, deserting safe spaces to touch by wandering. Fingers stroking under her bodice, loosening her corset... If his tongue dipped between her breasts, she would surely die and go to hell. Because heaven forbid, she would want even more... She would fall and fall until they would tumble into his bed, or into hers. If she gives herself to him, there is no going back._

She is not a nun. She may have lived near them, grown up under their watch, but that is all. She respects their values. She is grateful for all they taught her. They gave her an upbringing that is unparalleled.

But a part of her, however rebellious the rest of her is toward the idea of marriage and love,  _wants_. Her body wants, and her mind follows. Sometime it is the other way around.

She is not unfamiliar with those hidden stories of illicit affairs, of trysts masked by the dark of night, of stealthy visits to each other's bed. What are most romantic tales but accounts of conquest and sated lust? She had almost succumbed with Neal, but something ― call it resistance, or principles ― stopped her. Dreams of love were never hers to avoid.

The chasm between her and Killian is bridged, first and foremost, by their desire. She senses his attraction to her, as he must sense hers to him. He is a very handsome man, and yes, she feels  _smitten_. Very smitten. It was why she kissed him ― it made her feel  _good_. It certainly made him feel good as well, if his adoring gaze had anything to say about it.

And she needed that kiss. He needed it too.

Now he is whispering her name, over and over again, as if in prayer. But he doesn't bring up the forbidden subject of the kiss. "Where on earth did you come from, Emma Swan?" he wonders.

The way he pets her curls makes her blush. "Well...the last place I was at was an estate deep in the country. A...boy...and his mother...they lived there. Alone."

"Does this  _boy_  have a name?"

Emma bites her lip. There is also no going back from confiding in him. But...but she  _wants_  to. She  _aches_  to. "His name is Graham. He's at university right now."

"Ah...so that's why you left," Killian muses, stroking his chin. "This  _man_  didn't need you anymore."

She cannot stop herself from bristling at that. "No ― it's more complicated than that. Graham's mother...she was already ill, bedridden, when she hired me as his tutor. Her health declined even before he was finally admitted to school... It was hard for Graham to focus on his studies when his mother was so sick, but he managed. He passed his exams with top marks, and then..."

"And then?" he prompts when she doesn't continue.

"Then...there was no purpose for me to stay. They sold their old house so she could be with her son in the city, and as for me...I would have to be her caretaker to stay on. They were provided for, but they...they couldn't afford to keep me on for nothing, you understand."

"I do. What I don't understand is why you want to go back to them." He chuckles at her surprise. "You're something of an open book, love. It's more than obvious this Graham was the one who invited you away."

"It was I," she counters fiercely, "who helped him to finish his primary studies. He said himself he couldn't have done it without me. They were like family to me, Killian ― why would I stay here if I could have that? Of course I'd go."

He heaves a sigh, glancing at the ceiling. "Aye, that is true. But you just said, lass, that it would be impossible for them to take care of you that way. Have the tides turned in your favor now?"

Even to her own ears, her voice is small and sad when she answers no.

_Mother needs you more than ever, Emma. She misses you dearly ― I miss you. Come home to us. You don't need to stay in Storybrooke. He'll never find you when you're with us, I promise... You have a future here. With me._

"But...that's what I want ― what I've always wanted. A home. A family. They can give me that. They  _love_  me. And I love them." She turns her face from him. He doesn't need to see how it crumples up in pain, how she holds back her anguish. He does not need to know  _any_  of that.

"They love you, and yet...they let you go," he argues. He is angry and tense, like taut violin strings about to be unwound. "When you love someone, you shouldn't let go of them. The world is wrong ― you can't prove your love the opposite way." His tone softens, becomes gentle. "Why did  _you_  leave, Emma? If you were happy?"

"Because, Killian, I don't know how to stay put," she chokes out. "I just...I keep running. I don't know how to stop. I learned a long time ago that home is a place, when you're away from it...you just miss it. I care for Graham and his mother, I miss them...but being a nursemaid wouldn't work. It's not what I am."

_It's taken me so long to see it, but I know now. I'm in love with you. Emma, I love you desperately. Please come back to me._

_Yours truly, Graham._

* * *

Outside, rain still falls.

Her cheeks are wet. His clothes have dried. The sun is setting, for the clouds are turning purplish gray. The food he brought is lying untouched on the low table.

Killian helplessly watches Emma cry into her shoulder, lost in herself. He gets up and walks around when it becomes too much: the lass clearly doesn't want his comfort, even if every fiber of his body yearns to give it to her.

She lets out a quiet broken sob. He sets his jaw, determined, and faces the window.

When the storm is over, he will help her find home.

But he's going to need help.


	11. A Time to Sow

"Let me get this straight: Emma left you, then came back and kissed you. She then stayed for dinner, and yet...you are not speaking to each other." David gives him a puzzled frown, pitching more hay into the stall. Nearby, hungry and wide-eyed sheep bleat plaintively.

Leaning against the entryway, Killian sighs into his hand, shifting his weight from his sore right foot to his left. They have been working since before bloody dawn, and everything aches. "Mate, it is...complicated. We both have pasts, and we both came here to escape them. But she... Bloody hell, she really cannot see a life for herself here. She is...well, she's floundering. There's no other word for it. Bloody floundering, in the murk that is our quaint little town."

"If she does not want to stay here, Killian, then there is not much any of us can do."

He rolls his eyes. "One would think you would be able to read women by now, with how long you've courted the lovely Mary. Bloody damnation, Dave ― Emma does not have a home anywhere, can't you see that? She is a piece of driftwood, floating aimlessly in the sea."

David shakes his head, muttering, "How romantic, even when he is being an insulting ass."

"Oi, stable boy, I can hear you," Killian snaps back at him. He does not like being criticized any more than his friend likes that nickname. "My point is that no one has ever taken the time to show the poor lass the possibilities ― even in wretched Storybrooke. She is a fine teacher and a good woman. But she does not know herself or what it is she wants. It is our  _duty_  to help her."

"Duty, duty, duty ― always ' _duty'_  with you. It's a sign you're up to trouble, I say." Finished with the hay, he grabs the nearby milking stool and approaches the cow next. "Just what magical ideas did you have in mind, Jones?"

* * *

In all honesty, Emma really does not know how to reply to Graham's letter.

What should she say? "You are a fine man, but I'm better off being miserable in this town than marrying you?" Or the more typical excuse, "I'm not ready to be anyone's wife?"

She came to Storybrooke to find peace within herself. To find a new purpose and sense of self. Will she give up before she has even started?

Marriage has never been in the cards for her. She is too withdrawn and independent to rely on another for a full life. Besides, happiness starts inside. If she cannot forgive herself for her own failings and her mistakes, how can she forgive another? Her own problems are more than enough of a trial without dealing with someone else's.

Graham needs an understanding partner. One who will be attentive and empathetic and unselfish.

But she cannot even follow her own path, driven by the past and her fears to huddle alone and take no comfort while her heart bleeds out. She does not how to take care of him. She cannot give him what he needs or offer the parts of herself he wants most.

She does not know how to be a wife ― even more so now, after all that happened between herself and Neal.

Folding the letter carefully inside her memory, Emma locks these thoughts out of her mind. She cannot think about how Graham must be counting the hours and waiting for her answer, or how much courage it took for him to reveal his feelings.

One glance at her students, occupied with scribbling out their alphabets on their chalk plates, and she is back to ruminating over what her life has become. She used to be full of dreams, full of wishes and hopes for the future. Now she is practical, focused on what  _she_  has and what  _she_  needs. Not what others need. It is selfish and cold, but what can she do?

The only person who will ever put her first is herself. No one else has, and no one else ever will. Neal did not, despite the bond they had.

* * *

_She peeks inside the stable, because that is where the cook told her Neal is. But the structure is empty, except for the horses themselves. High whinnies and low neighs echo, and the scent of fresh hay reaches her nose. If the smell is any indication, someone must have tidied the stalls recently. The morning air is chilly, so she wraps her arms around her chest._

_Nostrils flaring, a white nose snorts puffs of air above one of the stall doors. The black head the nose belongs to appears moments later. She cannot see the eyes because long strands of unruly black hair are obscuring them, but ears flick forward knowingly. The horse then shakes its head and snorts, as if to let her admire the white star hiding under its forelock._

_Emma smiles. "Hello there," she says, keeping her voice quiet. She does not want to spook the poor creature. Holding her hand out, she watches it smell her for a few minutes before she dares to pet its muzzle._

_Heated breath warms her fingers. Dark eyes meet hers. She giggles when the horse leans forward to encourage more petting and the stall door creaks under its weight. Her fingers ascend to rub at the star on its forehead._

_There are too many shadows within the stall to tell whether the horse is a he or she._

" _I should have brought an apple for you ― or at the very least, a handful of oats." She eyes the brush hanging on the rack. The horse is very tall, towering over her, but she could comb its hair without needing a stool, though she is not the best judge of horse grooming._

_Standing up on her tiptoes, she is about to reach for the brush when a male voice interrupts the silence. "His name is Phantom." Emma turns to see Neal leaning against the stall right by the stable entrance, arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his face. "In case you were wondering."_

" _Horses like to be called by their given names," he continues. "It soothes them. Otherwise, they tend to bite at strangers."_

_It annoys her, that he thinks she is ignorant. "Is that so? I doubt he would bite me for getting the burrs and tangles out of his hair," she snaps. "You're the stable-hand, but Phantom looks like he just ran through a hundred bushes."_

_He seems to be biting back a grin. "That's because he has. Locksley took him out for a ride early this morning ― but the beast took off on his own, again. I just managed to round the rascal up and drag him back here."_

_His tone sounds irritated, but Neal strides up to Phantom's stall and strokes his hair with apparent affection, not impatience. Emma watches how he reacts to him, nuzzling his hand and nickering softly._

" _It seems you are good friends, despite your differences," she teases, petting Phantom's mane. Between the two of them, the stallion is getting more than his fair share of attention today._

" _He's purebred Arabian, you know. Wild and headstrong as they come, but riding one of these steeds is like racing the stars." He swallows hard. "But I'm guessing you did not stop by to learn about horses, from me of all people."_

_She blushes, hastening to make some sort of excuse. "I...I wanted to introduce myself. After we collided in the hall..."_

" _But_ _I already told you: I know who you are. Emma Swan, Henry and Roland's new governess." He gives her a sideways look. "They chatter about you all the time during their riding lessons. You're their hero."_

" _No, really," she sputters, embarrassed. "They are wonderful children, but..."_

" _Kids know how to tell the good from the bad in the people they meet. And these two see a world of good in you." His eyes crinkle when he smiles. "I think that's special. They really like you. The bond you share ― I've never seen anything like it. Not in this household, or anywhere else."_

_His family life must not have been that rosy ― she recognizes the sorrow that is clouding his face._

_Gently, she touches his hand. Neal looks surprised, but he does not flinch away. "I have never seen anything like this either," she says shyly, looking around the stable and out the door. "This...the manor...the estate...the children...it's all very new to me."_

" _Change is hard. It wasn't easy for me either, when I first came here."_

" _When was that?"_

_He hesitates before he answers. "Some time ago. But I got used to the work quickly. And Locksley is a good man. He's fair and honest."_

_She smiles at that. Robin is not what she expected at all. "Yes, he is."_

_Cocking his head, Neal gives her an understanding look, one that could pierce her deeply if she lets it. Taking a deep breath, Emma finally meets his gaze. "The cook did not tell me much about you."_

" _Mrs. Potts? Well, truth be told..." He peers around as if to make sure no one's listening. "I think she has a soft spot for me."_

" _Really?"_

_He shakes his head. "No."_

_Chuckling, she turns her attention back to Phantom ― the horse is safe and not as overwhelming as the sudden excitement building in her chest, letting her believe that somehow she was meant to meet this man._

" _To be honest, I am not exactly spreading rumors about myself here. I don't talk to anyone in particular ― I do my job and I get paid. No socializing required."_

" _That sounds very lonely."_

" _You're lucky ― you get to see Henry and Roland every day. But I am not one of the house servants. I smell like manure, get dirty more often than I take baths, and I don't follow household gossip. Nothing really there to recommend me to others."_

_That is exactly the sort of thing she would say about herself, that she is not worthy of anyone's company because of what she is. She hasn't quite decided yet what being brave really means, but she wants to try. The fear at the pit of her stomach, goading her to turn away from Neal, vanishes._

" _I disagree," she replies, chewing on her bottom lip. "I...I like you."_

_His smile is sad. "Then you'd be the first."_

_They stand there, staring at their shoes. Phantom nudges Neal's hand, eager for more petting, but he doesn't react. Sunlight begins to sneak through the window, and the light paints his face with a brightness that takes her breath away. His eyes, brown and warm, are searching hers, and it takes all her courage not to glance at the horse instead. Then he licks his lips, and they move._

" _I know this is perchance a strange question, but...have you ever ridden a horse before?"_

* * *

"Miss Swan?" Framed by tendrils of wheat-colored hair, Ava's green eyes blink expectantly ― she and her brother, the Zimmer siblings, are two of her more astute, attentive pupils.

 _Good God, the entire class is staring._  Emma sits up in her chair with a snap, back straight as a broom handle.

The girl looks apologetic when she says, "It's noon. Can we go home now?"

She nods quickly, waving them off. "Of course you can. Class dismissed."

_Was she really just daydreaming in the middle of a school lesson?_

Her face is hot to the touch when she gets up and starts to wipe down the blackboard, ignoring the giggles and whispers that are surely directed at her back.

* * *

The classroom is empty in mere minutes. It is the most peace and quiet she has had in hours, and it could not have come soon enough. The door is wide open, to let in fresh air and indicate that school is over for the day. Usually, she always closes it to minimize outside distractions and prevent interruptions. One of the older boys, Frank, once pointed to a seagull chasing one of his feathered companions, and the whole class was put on hold when everyone flocked to the porch to watch the show.

Well, she cannot put drapes on the windows, but she can rule the classroom with discipline and order. Education is a fickle thing. For some, it causes rebellion and confusion. For others, it is an opportunity to open all the windows of the world and explore. Creative minds drink in knowledge like water, soaking in every drop they can get. But despite the opposition, those who refuse to learn, there are still those who do not see how much it means to learn and discover.

And learning is not limited to books. It also concerns matters of the heart.

Emma touches her lips, feeling warm in spite of the wind's sudden chill. It has not even been a day since she kissed Killian Jones. The morning came and went, with her departing to ready herself for school and he escorting her home like the gentleman he is. He did not press her for an explanation, or for a reprisal of the evening's event. She promised herself she would not think about the romantic interlude at all.

Sighing, she begins to pick up discarded papers and chalk, separating the piles into their respective bins: one is an old tin bucket, the other a flat, rectangular wicker basket.

But it is impossible  _not_  to think about Killian. He...he kissed her  _back_. His mouth was soft on hers, but also unyielding and firm. He was sure of what he wanted, tender and willful as his lips met hers.

Her eyes were closed at the time, but she recalls the moment over and over again in her mind. How it felt, to be kissed by him. How hard it was to hold herself back from kissing him not just once, but twice. How she  _cried_  in front of him, letting herself be vulnerable. She would like to blame it on her turbulent emotions, that her heartbreak propelled a need for affection and pleasure. But there is something about him that she cannot name, a depth and singularity to his person, that pulls at her. Every look from those clear blue eyes cuts at her soul and makes her feel too much.

If she ponders that kiss too much, her impulses will push her up that hill and back into his arms. It would not be fair to him, or to herself. She cannot presume too much regarding their tentative friendship.

Graham's letter made her realize that it all too easy to get close to a man. Instead of taking a relationship at face value, he starts to form  _other_  expectations.

A series of quick knocks on wood makes her turn around. She is surprised to see August standing in the doorway, cap in his hands. His entire face lights up when he meets her gaze, and he offers her a small smile in greeting. "Good afternoon, Miss Swan."

Ducking her head, she pretends to be occupied with neatly arranging the chalk pieces in their bucket. "Good day." How stiff she sounds, like an old matron of a schoolmistress.

He clears his throat. "Please, call me August. My father never chose an English surname when he came here, and he is not about to now."

She searches for the broom, ready to sweep up any dust that has collected on the floor.

"Do you need any help?"

"No, but thank you for asking," she replies through gritted teeth, keeping her back toward him. "Was there something you wanted, August?"

His eyes flicker from her makeshift desk with wobbly knees, to the broken chair behind it. Then he glances over the old but sturdy benches where the children sit. "My father...he thinks that I am good with words ― that I could even be a writer ― but I do not. 'You're a born storyteller,' he says." Pursing his lips, August shakes his head. "Every time I open my mouth, I step around what I truly want to say for miles of sentences."

That makes her grin, just a little. She tries hard not to let it show.

"But I have been hoping that...you will allow me to be blunt now." He is twisting his poor cap in opposite directions, so that it already appears quite misshapen. "I want to apologize for my boorish behavior at dinner in Miss Blanchard's home."

She protests, "That is not―"

"Necessary? I think it is." He bites at his lower lip. "Judging by how you couldn't bear to speak to me all evening, I was an ass ― pardon my language," he quickly amends. "And I need to explain myself. For days, I've been working up the courage to come here and speak to you."

She leans against the desk, settling her feet. There is no point in arguing him out of this when he is so determined.

He lowers his line of sight to the floor. "From the moment we met in the shop ― the moment I saw you, actually ― I knew you were different. And I wanted to get to know you, so I..." His throat bobs as he gulps. "I asked Miss Blanchard if I could join you for dinner that night. She did not invite me herself, but she is a good, kind soul and let me come nevertheless. My presence was neither wanted nor welcome, but she let me stay and treated me well as her guest. She and David ― I like them. They've always been decent folk."

Emma nods her head, puzzled by his sincerity. "They are, indeed."

"They, and the rest of this town, may love my papa, but I've just never  _fit_  in, with everyone else. Most people my age bore me, so I stay in the shop and work. I love wood and what I can make with it, using my hands." The way he says the words, so fondly, makes her believe that it is true. This is an intimate piece of himself, the real August and what he treasures most. "I would rather do that than waste my time on pointless conversation that leads nowhere, but I am not about to look a gift horse in the mouth―"

"But you  _were_  welcome," she interrupts, blushing furiously. She feels so ashamed of herself. "I did not mean to...make you unwelcome. I had a lot on my mind, and I did not expect you to come. Please accept my apologies."

"The look on your face at the time said otherwise," he replies kindly, "but I do not blame you, Miss Swan. There is nothing to forgive."

She clutches at the desk for extra support, not knowing what to say.

"When I'm nervous," he stammers, "I tend to chatter like a darn magpie ― and I  _was_  nervous then. I wanted...I wanted to impress you. To make you smile. But I did not know how. So I failed in both respects. I hope you will forgive  _me_."

The room becomes silent once more. Emma struggles to collect her emotions, to find the right response to soothe his anxiety. It is true that they both acted abominably, thinking only of themselves, so she has no right to be angry with him. The best solution is to move past the blunders they have made and start anew.

Slowly, she lifts her head. Concerned blue eyes look back at her, and his face carries an expression taut from worry, complete with furrowed brows. "Miss Swan..." He steps toward her. "May I escort you home?"

Emma is taken aback by his scrutiny, and the genuine regret in his voice. The grudge in her heart has already melted. "Only if you will do one thing for me first."

He is hanging on her every word, sounding breathless when he says, "And what's that?"

"I'd like you to call me Emma... _August_." She smiles.

The smile he offers in return is radiant. "I can do that."

Glancing about, she can see the classroom is in order for tomorrow. She grabs the key to the door from the desk drawer ― which refuses to slide in the right manner  _again_  ― and shoves the damn thing closed. He is already putting on his cap, ready to leave.

"Let me just fetch my shawl," she hums lightly, almost prancing to the coat rack in the corner, "and lock the door."

Mere minutes later, they are walking side by side up the trail beneath glorious blue sky, and he has already said something to make her laugh.

After they have said their good nights, whispering their Christian names, and she has closed the door of her home, Emma realizes she enjoyed their conversation ― and his companionship. August truly relaxes during their  _rendezvous_ , and it seems he has a lot to say despite his misgivings about his own eloquence. He is not such bad company after all.

But she has been wrong before, and her error cost her dearly. There is no need to be too distrustful, but every need to remain cautious.

Only a fool makes the same mistake twice.

* * *

"Moe French is a stupid old rat," Killian grumbles, clutching at the box of seeds with both arms. If he stumbles forward and drops it, the whole purchase will be lost, and so will his money. "I don't give a damn if he is mourning after his long-lost daughter. He shouldn't be so bloody  _hateful_  toward his customers ― it's bad for business, by God."

Rolling his eyes, David snorts. "You're not often right, Killian ― but as far as that man is concerned, I agree  _entirely_."

"Too bad he is the only greengrocer in town."

"Too bad I raise livestock and only grow potatoes."

"Aye, too bad. See, Dave ― you could have a fortune, running your own little garden nursery...you're one of the few farmers for miles. Maybe this hidden potential is something to discuss with the future Mrs. Nolan?"

His ears turn bright red. "And why would Mary Margaret be interested in agriculture?"

"Because she will be helping you out with the business someday, if she has anything to say about it," Killian laughs. "You don't want to be a shepherd all your life, do you?"

David clutches at the rather lengthy receipt they got from Mr. French. "It's not something...I've thought out very well. Our farm...the land...it means everything to my mother. It's the last piece of my father that she has. You know that. Of course I want to give Mary Margaret a better life ― but not at the expense of our family. Losing James was enough. It broke Ruth's heart."

Seeing his friend's dilemma, Killian backs off. Perhaps it would be wise to change the subject of the conversation, considering he himself is avoiding such a talk. Why bring either of them pain when there is work to do now?

He claps David on the shoulder. "Don't worry, mate. I'm sure it will all work itself out somehow, for the best. For your girl and your mum."

"I simply do not want to start an argument with Mary," he replies quietly. "The plot of land she has was bought with the last of her inheritance. It would kill her to sell it. And I cannot sell mine either. So where would we live? It's part of the reason why I haven't married her yet." He raises his voice. "I have nothing to offer her, Killian ― just sheep and land we can barely afford to maintain. What kind of life is that for someone like her?"

"Hey..." he soothes, stopping their journey short in the middle of the street. "You're overreacting. You both always preach to me about hope. Have a little faith, David."

The man finally harrumphs, glancing at the many seed packets. The tension has left his shoulders. "I should be saying that to you, not the other way around."

"Hoeing with only one good hand? Tilling that wretched dirt?" Killian scoffs, hefting the box higher. "Don't get me started. You may be attending my bloody funeral before I get to see your marriage."


	12. One Day

" _Easy, girl...easy now." Neal soothes the mare with a few soft pats to the neck as he leads her forward by the reins. "You don't have to worry about good ol' Rose ― she's a quiet one. No surprises from her."_

_Emma rolls her eyes. He not only insisted on her using a saddle with a monkey grip ― which he laughingly told her was installed for the sake of young riders ― but he also won't let her walk the horse herself or touch the bridle. When he suggested a ride, she agreed because of a romantic image in her mind, of flying through fields with the wind whipping her hair._

_The only things moving her hair are low tree branches that nearly swat her in the face, and only her thoughts are flying, not her body._

_How very disappointing, she muses._

" _When you ride for the first time ― really ride ― your legs feel as stiff as blocks of wood afterwards. You should be thanking me for saving you hours of pain and bed rest." He looks up at her, flashing a cheeky grin. "Come on, I can feel your glare burning holes into my back."_

_She scowls at him, crossing her arms over her chest. "Then stop treating me like a child."_

" _Hey, I cannot be too careful with the Master's valued governess, can I now? He would have my head if anything happened to you ― or use me as target practice," he grimaced. "Locksley loves archery as much as his namesake would suggest."_

" _I do not see him robbing the rich to feed the poor, so I am sure you are mistaken about his temper, Mr. Neal."_

" _Cassidy. The name's Neal Cassidy."_

" _Well, Mr. Cassidy, you may be knowledgeable about horses, but you know nothing about governesses." She clings again to the monkey grip, rocking in the saddle with Rose's every step. This rhythm will take some time to get used to. "A governess is, above all, expendable. There are many women in my line of work who need a good position, such as this one, with a good family. I have heard many accounts of young girls being thrown out for the smallest errors. Please do not pretend that either of us are indispensable here."_

_He raises his brows. "I never said we were ― only that you are worth more to our employer than I am. Of the two of us, it is you he would not wish to be hurt, Miss Swan."_

_Emma winces inwardly at his formal tone. Why do her words all come out wrong?_

" _Ah, here we are ― whoa, Rose." The gentle mare obeys. "May I help you get down from your roost?"_

_Peering around, she gathers they have stopped at an apple orchard. There are no fences indicating the end of Robin's property, so these scores of apple trees must belong to him. "Why are we here?"_

_He bites down his lower lip, scrutinizing her. It is unnerving. "Come down, and I'll show you." His hand is extended. An offer she can refuse if she wishes to._

_It is more than a little humiliating to have to rearrange her skirts and slowly lift her right leg over to her left side so she can dismount. Surely, he caught a peek of her undergarments during the scuffle she had with her dress. When her hand slips into his, she slides down from the saddle and falls right into his arms._

_They are closer than they have been since they met, bodies a hairsbreadth away from each other. His arms are wrapped around her shoulders, hard and warm. Fixed on her face, his gaze is unflinching and still. His eyes flicker down to her lips for a moment, then peer at a tree behind her back._

" _These apple trees are famous ― it's one of the reasons Regina likes to be outdoors more than indoors when she visits. You know of Regina Mills? Locksley's fiancé?"_

" _We have been introduced," she says stiffly, disliking the very mention of the woman. Prickly and unfriendly, Regina is a force to be reckoned with, especially when she is upset. The last time they were in the same room, Henry was almost in tears. "She despises me."_

_He chuckles. "Find me a person that she favors, besides Locksley. I have heard stories, though, about her past...it was not a pretty tale. Her mother separated from her father when she was young ― quite the scandal, at the time ― and then the man she was engaged to died―"_

" _I do not want to hear her story, if you don't mind." Her chest tightening, Emma breathes in sharply. Cold ― that is what Regina is. Cold and judgmental of strangers. If it were possible, their paths would never cross again. Alas, Miss Mills is Robin's paramour and is not going anywhere. Saying good-bye to her would also mean parting with Henry, an event Emma would most certainly not like._

_Neal is fingering apples that hang low from swinging branches near the ground. They are ripe enough to be picked, with their enticing red hue and shine. Suddenly, she feels quite hungry. Rose looks hungry as well._

" _Tell me something." He snaps an apple off from its stem. The noise makes Emma jump in her shoes. "How much do you know about Robin Locksley?"_

_She shrugs, holding on tightly to her shawl. Does it really matter, when they are just servants? "The housekeeper, Miss Adelaide...she told me he was a lawyer when he was younger, famous for taking indigent cases."_

" _H_ _is father wanted him to go into law ― it wasn't Locksley's choice. The old man was not malicious, but wanted his only child to have a good life. After his death, Locksley married his childhood sweetheart ― whom his father had disapproved of ― and quit his firm for a time, living off his inheritance. Then his wife, Marian, convinced him to return to his work. Noble woman, she was. He started investing: in his estate, in factories, in other ventures. His clients love him. Many people, especially those he has helped directly, are grateful to him for all of his humanitarian efforts. He does not practice law anymore, but he oversees his firm and gives young lawyers a chance to build their reputation."_

_Rose is focused on the apple in Neal's hand, covered in bite marks. He is too busy chewing it to notice the gleam in her eyes. Grinning to herself, Emma plucks another apple from a nearby branch and holds it under the horse's muzzle. No one can tell her horse teeth do not chomp when the creature they belong to is hungry._

" _My, my," she tsks, letting Rose have control of the apple core, "you say you do not gossip, but you know more of our employer's history than I do. That speaks of personal interest."_

_He shrugs off her curiosity as if she asked about horseshoes instead. "He's a regular hero ― engaged to Regina Mills, cotton mill queen. Her father owns many mills across the country." Neal rolls his eyes. "A society woman and a philanthropist ― what a match."_

_She crosses her arms over her chest. "If I did not know better, I would say you're jealous of him, Mr. Cassidy. All this talk of his virtues, his pursuits, his accomplishments. Do you fancy such a life for yourself?"_

_His loud laugh scares a number of blackbirds from their hiding places in the trees. "You're jesting." Tossing his apple core, he wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. Rose trots over to where the core fell, snuffling blades of grass in search of it. "No, I did not come here to become an acclaimed lawyer with the 'Evil Queen' as my betrothed. The look on that woman's face could shatter a mirror. Locksley's a good bloke, but the reasons for his romance with Regina Mills are his own and certainly not ones I share, considering all her problems. Perhaps love really does make you do crazy things."_

_This is more information than she needs to hear. It would not be wise for her to defame her employer's fiancé with any further comments. Neal is but a stable hand ― Regina does not care about his opinion. But if Emma's dislike for her reaches Regina's ears, the post of governess at Sherwood Manor will be open again in record time. Besides, why is Neal harping on about Robin and Regina?_

" _Like it or not, Henry is my student and her adopted son." She points her chin in the air. "It would be best not to judge Mr. Locksley or Miss Mills in any way. I am here to teach their children, not to question them. I know my place."_

" _You are afraid of losing your position over a few words?" He teases her serious countenance with overly wide eyes and raised brows, pretending he is shocked by her reply. "Where's your sense of courage? If you find Mills that intimidating, I am surprised you've lasted this long in the game."_

_All of her frustration from the day boils over. He dares to question her competence and her motives? He is a stranger to her, and she to him. It was a mistake ― a great, stupid mistake ― to make his acquaintance. To want to establish a friendship of sorts._

_She always takes chances on the wrong people._

" _Game? This is no game ― this is my livelihood we are discussing, you_ _insufferable cad!" He is gaping at her, muttering apologies. But she will not listen. "Neal Cassidy, you know nothing of who I am and what I want."_

_Emma tries to mount Rose on her own, but she needs a boost to get on and she is unwilling to ask Neal for help. Throwing the reins at him, she stomps off in the direction they came. It is a long walk back to the manor ― her feet already hurt from the mere thought of it._

_She does not get very far before there's a rumbling and the sound of heavy hooves hitting the ground._

_Someone shouting her name._

_The telling gallop of a horse._

_Turning around, Emma gasps as Neal stops short, lifts her up in front of him like a rag doll, and then urges the mare forward with a sharp flick of the reins. She barely has time to settle onto the saddle, legs sliding apart, before her hair is streaming behind her and her eyes are watering. The monkey grip has been removed. Reaching for a fistful of the horse's mane, she hangs on to the long strands of hair with all her might._

_Neal's arms tighten around her waist as her back collides with his chest. He snaps the reins again, guiding Rose among the trees, and Emma struggles to stay in place, her heart jumping up and down from every ripple of movement. The horse canters faster and faster, until they are in the meadows and the landscape is a streak of color._

_She does not know if she should scream or shout or cry out from joy. Neal behaved like a scoundrel, challenging her so, but this ― this..._

_The true meaning of the wind was never clear until this moment._

_Free as a bird, her heart dancing, Emma has finally found her sky and is soaring among the clouds._

* * *

Humming softly as she sweeps the floor, she glances at the windows she washed moments ago. Every surface in the cottage is shiny, even sparkling in the gleam of light that peeks through the glass. There is nothing like a tidy home, something she can take care of and watch over.

Inanimate objects are the safest things to become attached to. It is easier to cut off or forget about a material good than say, a person. She glares at the wooden chest, where Neal's letters and notes lie. Oh, that she understands all too well.

For the most part, Emma has been spending the last few days by herself, focusing on her teaching. August most graciously invited her to supper with his father, who seemed to be eager to talk with her again. She was thrilled to hear that and gladly accepted. She really likes Marco ― he has a warmth and charisma few people possess, and she feels honored that he enjoys her company. It would be nice to have these two men as her friends.

She's _not_ alone. She needs to keep that in mind with every breath she takes.

The strands of stiff straw rustle against the wooden floor, reminding her that if she does not get rid of all the dust and dirt the broom has collected, it will just settle back into the corners where it was hiding before.

Careful to keep hold of the dust pile, she reaches for the door handle with the other. Quick as can be, she opens the door, scrapes the broom forward, and flings the dust out. Unfortunately, she forgot that the open windows would create a substantial draft ― one that blows the efforts of her cleaning straight into the air.

And right into the surprised faces of David and Mary Margaret, who both start coughing and sneezing from the sudden cloud. It seems the former was about to knock on her door.

"Dear Lord, I am so sorry," Emma squeaks out, covering her mouth with her hands. The broom crashes to the floor.

David's eyes are watery when he tries to smile. "It's, eh, just a little grit." He bends down to pick up the broomstick, offering it to her. "Mary Margaret, are you alright?"

Eyes squeezed shut, she searches her person and pulls out a small white handkerchief, dabbing at her eyelids. Then she sneezes again, into the cloth. "I'm fine." She shakes her head as if to wake herself up, finally looking at Emma. "Good afternoon!"

Emma squirms, all too aware of her soiled apron and shoes, the knotted scarf covering her hair. She has been cleaning since she came home from the schoolhouse, and this is most certainly not the way she wanted her friends to see her. She looks and feels dirty. "Hello," she replies in a small voice. "I honestly did not know you were behind the door, or I never would have―"

"Really, it's okay." Her gaze is as kind as always, and her smile is true. David nods his assent, running a hand through his hair. "We live on farmland, Emma ― we're used to dust. You have nothing to apologize for."

She sighs in relief. "Thank you."

David joins in, "We actually stopped by to ask if you'd like to have a picnic with us."

"Now? But isn't it...too late in the day for a picnic?"

Mary Margaret laughs. "It is not nearly sunset yet. Besides, it is just down the road ― Ruth has been asking after you."

"She did?" Suddenly, her poor state of dress does not matter so much. "Well, if I might have a few moments to find my bonnet and shawl, I'd love to join you."

The smirk on her friend's face is telling, especially when she glances at the two items hanging on the decrepit coat rack by the door. She steers David away from the door and they wait outside while Emma washes her hands and her face, combs her hair, and wipes down her apparel. She has to remind herself to lock the door.

Secure in the thought that her home is safe _and_ clean ― one can never be too certain about either ― she soon finds that her bonnet is unnecessary, as the sunshine is not strong and the breeze has become mild. She ties it around her neck nonetheless, not willing to go back and leave it behind.

The trio set off down the lane, Mary Margaret chattering gaily about her daily activities and some incident with the baker's wife. David listens, saying little. Emma also finds herself at a loss for words, too busy staring at the wide open fields leading to the Nolans' farm.

She is accustomed to seeing gates and fences, men marking their territory and making the world that much smaller. The emptiness of enclosed land reminds her that life is a set of chains. Women are never expected to be more than they appear to be, like a landscape behind stone walls. At first glance, it is mere property, for no one sees the thriving home of the creatures who inhabit it, plant and animal alike.

The exception was Graham, who told her that she can be so much more than a simple governess. Perhaps she was born to see the world, explore new lands, map out water and _terra firma_ that have not been discovered yet. Perhaps she could be a great leader, who changes the country for the better.

All she knows is that she feels, in the deepest part of her heart, that she is meant to change lives. In small ways, or in big ways. For better, or for worse. But people will not even give her a chance to do that, because she is forced to model the paragon of womanhood, which states impossible things.

_A woman ought to be kind. A woman ought to be gentle. A woman ought to be a wife and a mother._

By those standards, she is a lost cause.

"Hurry up, you three ― the bread will be stale by the time you get here." Upon seeing them, Ruth waves from her spot on the picnic blanket, which is under a leafy apple tree. There is no fruit hanging from the branches, but there are plenty of leaves and thick buds, a good indication that blooms will soon follow in their stead. Grinning from ear to ear, David waves right back. His eyes are so bright with love for his mother that Emma has to look away.

They wade through tall grasses and resting hay to get to Ruth. Seeing Mary Margaret lift her skirts above her ankles, Emma does the same so she doesn't trip over the layers of her own dress. She lags behind on purpose, not wanting to interrupt the reunion between mother and son. Although they live together and see each other every day, their mutual attachment is stronger than any separation. As she watches them interact, her desire for the parents she never had is rekindled, burning at the forefront of her mind.

To see a mother's loving smile is to look upon the face of God.

* * *

_Her arrival entailed of a one-hour carriage ride from the station._

_Pink blossoms from swaying tree branches swats at her head as the driver ― who never offered her his name ― clucks at the horse to go a little faster. The long road seems to go on forever. Tall, motionless cypresses line both sides, mute soldiers who eye her as she passes under their watch._

_Robin's estate was wild, more forest than civilized abode. Oaks and spruces and evergreen pines with overlapping limbs all threatened to swallow Sherwood Manor whole ― a small ship floating in the middle of a dark green sea._

_This house is different, more luxurious cottage than sprawling mansion, with simple off-white paint and Dorian columns lining the walls. It guards acres of meadows and flowering fields, with trees distant and spread out among high grasses. It is a quaint building, clearly custom designed by an architect._

_She loves it already because of the lilacs, climbing rampant over the gates with their mother shrubs clearly left untrimmed. They give the house a human touch, make it less strange and new._

" _This is it, Miss." Holding her gloved hand firmly, the driver tries to help her down from the carriage, but she almost slips off the last step. The wide-brimmed straw hat she wore for the trip tilts to the side, and the heels of her shoes sink into the soft earth._

_There are no other servants at the gate. Hefting her sole piece of luggage, the carriage driver unlatches it, barely leaving enough room for her to squeeze through the iron bars. With the clang, the gate shuts closed behind them ― the end to one story, and the start of another._

_The finely etched oak door calls out, full of promises._

_For the first time since they met, the driver gives Emma a wry smile, his gaze filled with pity. She must look a sight, unwilling to move, cowering beside him. Her feet feel glued to the ground. "The Humberts are good folk, Miss. You'll be alright here."_

_She only hopes that it's true._

* * *

"Mother, if you have any more lemonade, you'll finish it all," David whines. When Ruth laughs merrily with Mary Margaret, he takes advantage of their distraction and steals the jug away.

"My darling boy, with his sweet tooth ― he does love his sugar so." She reaches over and pinches his cheek. His entire face flushes crimson.

Leaning back on her hands, Emma grins, enjoying the family scene in front of her. It has been far too long since she shared a similar one. _Graham and his mother._ Pushing away thoughts of her pending reply to his letter, she stares up at the sky, so near sunset but not yet touching that time of day. It is peaceful here, under the shade of this gigantic tree. She can almost smell the mouth-watering scent of apple blossoms.

Her stomach growls at this, satisfied and full to the brim. Supper was light, consisting of baked potatoes and beans and buttered bread and a berry pie Ruth made herself. David seemed to be embarrassed when they were passing the few dishes around. Did he think Emma would turn her nose up at humble fare, when she has eaten such meals all her life?

No bountiful feast at a rich man's table can compare to home-baked bread and the fruit of the earth.

After enduring more teasing from his mother, David points out a solitary figure in the distance, walking along the main road. "Hey, isn't that Killian?" Jumping to his feet, he cups his hands around his mouth and shouts, "Jones ― Jones! Don't make me use my shepherd's crook to pull you over here!"

The suspenders he has over his trousers, and the straw top hat he tips respectfully in greeting, complete his look as a gentleman farmer, a handsome figure against that natural background she loves so much. He pauses, then climbs over the main fence meant to keep the sheep in, but he doesn't come closer or approach them. David walks out to him and they become engaged in an animated conversation. She cannot believe her eyes when they shake hands and Killian walks back to the path, using the small gate to exit the field. Not knowing why, she rises to her feet.

When David hops over, slightly out of breath, Mary Margaret asks, "How is he?"

"Right as rain." He uses the ladies' divided attention as an opportunity to finish the last of the lemonade. Ruth mock frowns at him. "Said he'd love to stay, but he has work to do at the lighthouse. He sends his salutations to you all."

It sounds like he did not stay because she is here. Emma frowns. She steps nearer to David so that her words will not be overhead. "Is that all he said?"

His glance is pointed when he answers, "He did ask about you. He asked if you are well."

* * *

He wants to stop looking at them ― at _her_ , smiling and laughing, looking happy and peaceful among the Nolans and David's lass. She is clearly enjoying their picnic ― _and I am bloody glad of it_ , he reprimands himself.

It is torturous to be so close and yet so far away from Emma's presence, the one thing in his life right now that brings him a glimmer of hope and light. _But he is a glutton for punishment._ He sharply turns his face away from the sight in front of him.

Clinging to the shadows of the trees and a pole of the fence, Killian keeps his hat lowered down and peers from underneath the brim as he stares at the dusty road ahead, long and winding and leading to his empty house. He should walk off, turn back to his cliff where he hangs onto the edge of his own sorrows, not worrying about Emma's pain. Hasn't he suffered enough, without caring for yet another who needs more than he can give?

He will keep his word, go through with his plans. Emma was right. It is wrong of him to allow his feelings for her to grow. She is a flower in the midst of weeds ― and he is such a weed, a choking, grasping man who has nothing but a broken body and broken dreams. It is dangerous for her to be entangled with him.

"Killian."

His eyes snap open. Her hands curl over the top plank of the fence as she leans against it.

When she catches him ogling her lips, she lowers her gaze to the ground, blushing. His heart will not leave him alone, caught on the image of loveliness before him. The feelings he wants so desperately to quash ― _for her sake_ ― rattle around in his chest and his head, until he is dizzy from _her_.

"You won't stay?" she whispers. Her hair is blown about her shoulders by the rising wind on the lane, causing her to tuck her curls behind her ears.

His hand itches to do that for her, but he keeps himself in check. He thought honesty was lost to him, but he can be open and direct with _her_ , not mincing words. "It is better if I do not," he stammers, his voice hoarse and low to his own ears.

The hurt that ripples across her expression takes him by surprise. "Why? Have I done something to upset you?" She swallows, then bites down on her lower lip. "You do not have to go because of me. I can go―"

"No," Killian nearly shouts. Seeing her flinch, he clears his throat. "It is not that. I...I thought you would like some time alone with the Nolans."

_Without me._

Emma looks puzzled. "And...why does that mean you cannot join us?"

 _Out with it, Jones._ "If I recall correctly, love, the last time we were in the same space, you were quite...distraught." It is hard to tiptoe around the memory of her crying, or his choice to give her hope he doesn't have himself.

"That wasn't because of you," she says quickly. "That was..."

"More memories?" He cocks his head.

"Yes," she whispers back, bowing her head. Her shoulders drop. "It had nothing to do with you, Killian. You were considerate and kind―"

He scoffs at that. "Kind? Me? Not bloody likely, lass."

Emma squints hard at the bottom of the fence post. _No doubt she has seen a squirrel hole_ , he thinks. She bends down, and her golden locks tumble forward. Killian cannot stop himself from inhaling the wave of her perfume, savoring the blood cascading through his veins.

Then she straightens, staring at whatever it is she now has in her hands.

A wildflower, with long white petals. She is holding it out to him by the stem, reaching through the wooden bars between them. "I was meaning to ask when I should return for my portrait."

Their fingers touch when he takes her offering.

A smile tugs at his lips, and he tucks the flower into the pocket of his trousers. "I might be able to complete it from memory."

"Good Lord, you will not even let me have an excuse to come up and visit you, will you?" she chuckles. Her cheeks are still pink.

Now it is his turn to swallow thickly. "I...was not aware that was something you wanted."

"It is." Her hand clasps his, warm and soft and gentle. "I hope you see me as a friend. I care for my friends."

Only common sense ― his iron resolve ― some vain glimmer of reason pulls him back from lunging forward, cupping the nape of her neck, and kissing her senseless. Squeezing her hand, Killian tries to smile back. He shouldn't be bloody welcoming her to the lighthouse, when she is not supposed to come before it's ready for her.

Nevertheless, she seems satisfied with that response. Turning around, Emma starts to walk in the direction of the far-off picnic.

When she notices he's not following, she turns her head and looks back at him. "Well? Aren't you coming?"

_She is inviting him to be with her._

_She wants him to walk by her side._

_Damn his promise to stand back._

Grinning widely, Killian jumps over the fence for the third time. She is halfway across the field when he catches up to her, running like a madman. The smile she gives him then makes his heart thrum slow, steady beats.

The way Emma looks at him in that moment makes him all the more determined to make her happy.


	13. Roots

Unwise. That's what he bloody is ― unwise. Most would say foolish.

Groaning, refusing to open his eyes, Killian rubs his face vigorously with his hand and tries to wake himself up. Standing guard by the lighthouse lamp all night long, worrying about the high winds, took its toll. All those sips of rum had not done him any favors either. At dawn, he finally gave up the vigil and tumbled headfirst into bed. Now he has a bloody headache and malaise at the pit of his stomach. There is nothing a man likes less than being proven right about what he has done wrong.

Despite reaping the consequences, he still dreamed of Emma. His golden sun, bathing his slumber in light.

Thinking of her, he grins to himself. He can still feel the excitement of last evening, at the picnic.

Emma, twirling to the sad, lilting music of the shepherd's pipe. Good mother Ruth, pulling Mary Margaret up from her seat on the blanket and spinning her around in circles, giggling and laughing. The rosy hue of Emma's cheeks when the lasses each offered her a hand and drew her into their simple dance. David, cocky and all too pleased when Emma sent Killian a beaming smile.

His heart, wizened and unused for so long, threatens to burst from the onslaught of felicity.

_Boom, boom, boom._

Aye, that's what awakened him ― that rude noise coming from his front door.

His eyes snap open.

Someone is knocking on the door.

"Jones," calls David's voice. "Jones, are you in there?"

 _Bloody hell_. He hobbles out of bed, then blindly searches for his trousers and the nearest shirt. Yanking them on, he stumbles into his shoes and does not bother to tie the laces.

The small room he dares to call a kitchen looks inviting and quiet, in comparison to the racket his friend is making. Clutching at his throbbing head, he runs to the door and pulls it open.

Despite Killian's blurry vision, it is clear David is not happy, scowling up a storm. "We need to talk," he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest.

Killian squints, mustering a smirk. "I find I'm rarely in for a pleasant conversation when I hear those four words."

David rolls his eyes. "This is serious, Killian, and certainly not the time for jests."

The telling tone of his voice causes Killian's windpipe to constrict. "Has something happened to your lass? To Emma? God almighty―"

"Stop swearing," he growls.

"Damn it, mate―"

"No cursing either!"

"Just spit it out, Dave." He is losing his temper with the man. "If not them, what's worrying you so that your eyes are bulging out of your bloody head?"

"Can we talk inside?"

Now that he mentions it, Killian notices that David is unusually anxious, shifting his weight from foot to foot, glancing left and right as if he is waiting for someone to appear.

Whoever that may be, they cannot be anyone good.

The moment the door closes behind them, the shepherd visibly relaxes his stance, heaving deep sighs. "I almost thought he followed me here."

Killian grows more perplexed. The stabbing pain in his temples is not helping matters. "Who on bloody earth is making you almost wet your trousers?"

David's eyes are instantly cold. "George Spencer is back in town."

 _Bollocks, no._ "How do you know that?"

He clenches his hands into fists. "Because he just visited my farm this morning."

* * *

_The carriage's sudden stop jolts Killian awake from troubled sleep, with spectres of Liam and Milah in his dreams. A long train ride and then hours of riding over bumpy terrain in this wretched contraption have affected his state of mind._

_All this trouble, to get to this town called Storybrooke._

_The advertisement in the newspaper was direct and to the point: lighthouse keeper needed, room and board provided, ample pay, decent workload._

_Of course he wondered why no one within Storybrooke itself was willing to take on such a position, especially when steady employment was hard to find everywhere. Nonetheless, he applied, wanting a clean break from the stifling city, an escape route from the past. At least his mention of naval experience gained a good reception. Grudgingly or not, the town council paid for his train ticket and his carriage fare, so off he went._

_Running a lighthouse could not be that difficult. Liam had taken him to visit a few when they were on shore leave. This job requires dedication and discipline, to be sure. But he needs that in his life. He needs to be tied down, like the ropes unfurling from the sails of a ship. Otherwise, he will be blown away and self-destruct through disregard for his own life and its purpose. There is no one who gives a damn if he dies or not. His tombstone will be unvisited. Fortunately, Liam was buried at sea, so the wind will carry his presence wherever Killian goes._

_A spasm of pain rips across his chest, forcing him to grip the door frame on his way down from the carriage. The tremors echo in his mind and his heart, a deep tearing creating fissures in his soul. This hurt cannot be remedied by drink or fixed by a doctor. Trying both options have exhausted his physical resources._

_It is better if he thinks only of himself now, of his own needs and wants. Remembering what he has lost and has caused others to lose will drive him to insanity and rend apart what is left of him. His brother was his stronghold, his dearest friend. But the man was given up to the sea. He is dead and buried. He is not coming back._

_Milah also belongs to the past. No matter how much Killian can wish for the departed to return, they will not. Why can he not convince himself that this is wistful thinking and unfulfilled longing? These thoughts are a dagger he pulls out and stabs himself with. He alone makes himself bleed._

_And in that wound, he also finds solace. Could another person begin to understand what he endured? Is there any point in trying to find someone like that, who has shared in similar suffering?_

_He struggles to keep his balance as he hauls his heavy luggage, staggering along the beaten dirt path, not sure what he is looking for. A sign, perhaps, from above, to show Providence does not hate Killian Jones._

_The insignia of a pub pops into view, signpost swinging above the door. "The Rabbit Hole" seems to be an appropriately sordid establishment where he will not be judged by appearance. After all, any man who seeks refuge in spirits has no cause to reprimand another who does the same._

_It's bad form, drinking on his first day in town, but the rum runs smoothly down his throat, warming his belly and his head. Never mind that it is the middle of the day and there is no one else inside but the proprietor and a short, stocky man who appears to be fully inebriated. Stacking his coins on the table, Killian pushes them forward, along with his empty glass. It is to his credit that he does not feel tipsy ― but given the amounts of liquor he has imbibed within the last few years, his tolerance for it is higher than that of most men._

_And women. Milah could bloody drink her way through a bottle of rum, for God's sake._

_Imagining her, bright smile and laughter combined, makes him long for another glass of rum. But he cannot afford it, so he swallows down the rest of his anguish and smiles bitterly at the dirt floor._

_Someone was supposed to meet him when he came, but there was no one at the carriage's designated stop. What the bloody hell has he gotten himself into?_

" _You look like a man who could use another drink." The deep, self-confident voice booms against the walls, but no one pays attention to the outburst._

_Killian searches for the source of the voice. His eyes finally rest on a figure shrouded in shadows, hiding in the darkest corner of the pub. "What was it that gave me away?" He purses his lips. "My ability to hold my rum in one go, or that I'm still standing straight afterwards, hearing every word you say?"_

_The stranger chuckles. "You've got spirit. That's good ― this town needs some livening up."_

_A snap of his fingers, and the bartender sends another shot of rum Killian's way. Tipping the contents into his mouth, he smacks his lips loudly before returning the glass and then sauntering over to where his would-be benefactor is sitting._

" _Thanks for the rum, mate." He collapses onto a nearby chair. "So besides the obvious conclusion that I'm new to these parts, what else can you tell me about this charming little town?" he slurs. His appetite for sarcasm gets worse when he is a bit tipsy._

_It sounds like the man is rolling a glass of his own between his fingers. "The people here are hard-working but lost in their old ways. They are immune to progress and what that could mean for them. Daft, if you ask me. Why, the local magistrate offered to build a factory ― completely at his own expense ― and buy farmlands at twice their market value. That kind of endeavor would bring money and jobs to this region. But the town council is made up of numskulls who cannot see past their own noses and traditions. They resist change and turned down the proposal, despite that farmers had to sell their crops at half the price last harvest."_

_Killian shrugs. "Surely a man with that kind of influence could do without their approval."_

" _Perhaps, but general approval is needed for success. Every leader, even Napoleon, learned that quickly. The masses hold power. And the magistrate wants to keep his position, of course. He cannot outvote the council by himself. The whole town would declare war."_

_If his head wasn't swimming, his sense of reason would hold back his tongue from drawling, "Sounds all too familiar."_

_Still, the stranger refuses to show himself, clinging to the dark. "You know from personal experience?"_

" _Aye," he says bitterly. "That I do. The rich and powerful would do anything to stay that way. Even if it means siding with what is wrong ― for them."_

" _That is why you are drinking? To stave off memories of how they have wronged you?"_

_His instincts warn him that this conversation is headed south, but he does not listen. Why can't he speak to someone for once without worrying about the repercussions? Ignoring the question, he replies instead, "This world thrives on connections. It only takes one word to destroy a man's life."_

" _And you are such a man."_

" _Aye, I am." Having to learn from the bloody newspaper about Milah's fate was the final straw. Suffering from a complete lack of commissions thanks to her cowardly husband's golden word, he had shut himself up in his studio. The landlord had evicted him without mercy. The image of his easel being thrown out the window because he had complained it was too heavy to carry down..._

_Killian nurses his pain and tells himself that was over, that he has come here to forget about himself. This job is the most important factor in his life. He is a survivor and not even Gold himself can stop him from finding some means of employment. "So if it's so bloody stifling here, why do you stay?"_

" _I don't know." He tsks at himself. "Personal ties, I guess."_

_Killian grimaces. "That wouldn't be enough to hold me down."_

" _Not when you have invested in them like I do." The man shifts his legs under the table. "This is my hometown. I'll always keep an eye on it and its residents."_

_Those details clear the fogginess in his mind. There is more to this stranger than meets the eye. The rum clangs like a bell in his head, and he stands up, ready to leave the pub. "Well, mate, it's been nice talking to you, but I have places to be."_

_He chuckles. "It was no trouble. I enjoy hearing the other side of a person's story."_

" _Story?" Killian stops short. "What on earth are you talking about?"_

" _Why, your story. Killian Jones, unknown artist ― your sorry self, caught up between an irate husband and the wife who cuckolded him with you."_

_His blood freezes in his veins. "How in bloody hell―"_

_The arrogant man also rises to his feet, staring him down with clear contempt. In the weak light coming from the pub windows, Killian can make out the features of a balding, heavily-built man who towers over him._

" _Come now, Mr. Jones, let's not play games. I know everything there is to know about you. You surely noticed the name of George Albert Spencer as one of the signatures on the letter you're carefully guarding? The one that welcomes you to Storybrooke and offers you the post of lighthouse keeper?"_

_He discerns his mistake too late. "You are the magistrate, the one who hates this town."_

" _Hates? No, I care about it ― enough to question any newcomers here and assess any vital threats. I come back and finance the town's needs because it is too poor to fund its own mayor. I'm always acting in its interests."_

" _And your own," he snaps, despising how he has been so easily tricked._

" _In a manner of speaking, our interests are usually aligned," Spencer sneers. "Welcome to Storybrooke, Mr. Jones. A personage like yourself will do well in the lighthouse ― even the town drunk, Leroy," he points at the only other man in the pub, snoring at the bar, "didn't want that job, and he has the greatest debts in the entire village. And the seclusion of such a position should be refreshing for you, after being the object of such scrutiny in society."_

_Then he peers down at Killian's missing hand, which he has been trying to hide during this entire conversation. "No need to worry about your little problem ― even a dunce could maintain the lamps one-handed."_

_His stomach drops to the floor._

_With a sweep of his long overcoat and his nose practically in the air, the magistrate makes his exit, not giving him a second glance._

_The moment he is outside, Killian stumbles against the nearest wall for support. Bloody damnation. He thought he left his past behind him to start a new life._

_Bloody chance in hell of that._

* * *

Sitting down hard on the worn settee, Killian runs a hand through his hair. He is drained from the onslaught of information piling inside his head. And he is worrying for David. The man took his leave about an hour ago, visibly shaken, unable to come to terms with what George told him. In light of what havoc that bloody bastard could wreak on Ruth and Mary Margaret, David's only course of action is submission.

And yet...he is a fighter. For all poor Dave has said about Storybrooke ― sleepy and stagnant, dull and uninteresting ― he looked heartbroken at the prospect of leaving it for good so Spencer could keep up bloody appearances. Who wouldn't be? His friend loves the land he was born on, but Ruth and the lass are his home. A future without those two in his life would devastate him.

Despite the pounding in his sore head, Killian longs for another spot of rum. Unfortunately, he needs to save the rest of his earnings after all the additional expenses this month, especially his overdue account at the Lucas' store.

Another series of knocks at the door have his mind spinning. Is that David, back to hide from the nefarious man who wants to destroy him? Or George himself, come to threaten and intimidate? With a groan, he lifts himself up and trudges back to the entrance of his house.

A very welcome face awaits him on the other side of it.

"Hello." Biting on her lower lip, Emma peers at her shoes. The blue bonnet she is wearing tips downward as well and momentarily conceals her face.

He too is rather speechless from her appearance. Blinking, he bids her to enter. She hurries inside, taking off the bonnet as soon as the door shuts. Glancing at her, he notices she is holding a basket in her left hand.

"What can I do for you, lass?" He rolls his shoulders, willing the fatigue in his muscles to leave.

Tentatively, she walks into the kitchen and places the basket on the table there. The silence between them is stifling. Wringing her hands, she stares at the floor before looking right into his eyes. He can see how much effort it took for her to come here, to approach him first. "I was thinking about we said, at the picnic." She licks at her lips. "I know this is very sudden ― but I needed to come. I cannot explain it."

"You don't have to," he smiles, delighted by the soft blush on her cheeks afterwards. "You are always welcome here."

"Thank you, Killian." She hesitates before continuing, "Would it be possible...to see my portrait?"

Warmth blooms in his chest. With surprising eagerness, he runs to his studio and grabs the cloth-covered painting.

When Emma attempts to lift the cloth herself, he swats at her hand. "Ah, it's not ready yet, Swan," he chuckles. "Are you quite sure you want to view it unfinished?"

Grinning, she nods. He lets the cover fall down, revealing his handiwork. Only the first layer of paint has been applied, so that a flat rendition with no shadowing is before them.

Every part of this moment affects him ― her gasp, the soft glow in her eyes as she gazes at each line and bit of coloring. She seems truly stunned.

"How did you do it?" she whispers, awe-stricken. "How do you  _see_  me?"

"I cannot explain it," he teases, smirking to hide how worried he is. Will she be frightened away because of this?

When she smiles in reply, he hopes she cannot hear the low pounding of his heart, or how a deep exhale leaves his chest. The few times she has come up to visit him, he was terrified that when he escorted her to her cottage, it would be the last time he ever saw her face. That he would somehow drive her away, because he never knows the right thing to do or say. That she would shun him, and there would be no forgiveness.

Instead, she is a recurring star in his life, coming into view unexpectedly and bringing him the glow of happiness. He is so glad to see her here that his feet threaten to skip along rather than walk calmly when he draws nearer.

Her hand reaches out as if to trace the lines of paint, but falls back. "You know your trade, Killian Jones." She sighs. "It almost ― it almost  _hurts_  to look at this."

He searches his mind for the best words. "All I did was think of you, lass. I have never been that good at portraits, I'm afraid."

Her smile returns. "Perhaps you should reconsider that opinion,  _maestro_. The likeness is remarkable."

He longs to pull her into his studio and finish the painting, to capture her in all her beauty on his canvas so he has a fragment of her to keep after she leaves him again. On a day when he gorges on sorrow and rum, unable to rouse himself from pain, he would have to but look at the radiance in her face and be reminded to survive.

To live another day, because someone like her exists and breathes the same air as he does.

Clearing his throat, he excuses, "It would be my honor to finish the portrait now, but David asked me to come down to the farm. His sheepdog is expecting wee ones and he needs help more than ever in shepherding his flock."

It is a half-truth. What assistance Killian can provide does not seem to be enough. With Ruth feeling ill recently, David does need all the help he can get in maintaining the farm. But today, he asked him to come over for different reasons. It is a long walk from the lighthouse to the farm, and his headache is not making the prospect of such a journey any easier.

That is why he thinks he must be dreaming when he hears Emma say, "I'll come with you." She eyes the basket. "The food should hold until you return."

"With me? Food?" he croaks out, still in disbelief.

"Yes. I want to help." Her boldness has become reserved again. "I recalled our last meal together and...well, there were more than enough leftovers from my own cooking."

He realizes that she is anticipating his refusal. "I...I don't know what to say, lass." He smiles like a fool, then wets his dry mouth. "Thank you."

Her tense posture softens, and she regards her portrait one final time. He waits until she is finished to cover it with the protective cloth and usher it back to where it belongs.

If only where he belongs were that simple a placement.

* * *

True to his hopes, the distance to David's farm feels shorter because of the lass walking beside him. His pulse races as it did when she invited him to the picnic, chasing off his isolation. It was different while Liam lived. Now when people make an effort to include him in their circles, he cannot help but doubt their intentions.

David and Mary Margaret were the first exception. They have never judged him, pried into his past, or forced him to converse. Their concern for him has always been wholehearted, and David's friendship is genuine.

Emma is the second. He has lived for years in Storybrooke and yet the townsfolk are still strangers to him, unwilling to see past their presumptions. She is a stranger to the town but has become closer to him than anyone else.

"The weeds are gone from your garden." She gives him a questioning look. "And the soil has been upturned."

He grins, thinking of his plan. "Clever lass to notice such details."

"That is not an answer." Her own eyes sparkle with amusement. "Killian Jones, you're up to something."

"Am I?" He raises a brow, still smirking. "The town says I'm a scoundrel, darling. By that account, I am always scheming. Besides, I simply took your advice." He defends his supposed guilt with a shrug.

"Hmm." She kicks at a small stone in their path. Her silence is telling, so he does not continue the conversation.

But she surprises him again and asks, "How did you and David become friends?" She clutches firmly at his arm when she stubs the toe of her shoe on a protruding rock. He keeps her from falling, enjoying how she is holding on to him for support.

"Is our friendship that unlikely, given who we are?"

"No." She peers sideways at him. "It's just that..."

"Why? We make a charming pair, don't you agree?"

"What I meant to say," she amends, clearing her throat, "was that David does not seem to have many friends ― except for you. You talk often, and you help each other."

Killian ponders David's status in town. The man has friends, but he had a difficult childhood and it is not easy for him to let others know him intimately. If she is speaking of acquaintances...

"He is well-liked," he answers carefully, "but his desire to always do right by people has also earned him enemies."

Emma wrinkles her nose. "That is rather vague."

Rolling his eyes, Killian explains. "His sense of honor gets him into trouble."

"And you do not care about trouble?"

"The first Sunday I attended services here," he says in a low rumble, "was the last. David and Mary Margaret were the only people in the entire church who welcomed me to town. I felt like a pariah the moment the congregation turned their eyes on me and assessed what was lacking, from my attire to my appearance to my...missing hand. No one came to greet me or introduce themselves after the service was over. Pastor Hopper was kind enough to shake my remaining hand."

"But they did." A smile crosses her lips. "I too am glad I met them."

"They are a well-matched couple, always willing to help someone in need." He coughs under his breath. "I would not have lasted long here without their company."

"You act like brothers sometimes, you and David," she chuckles. "I've wondered all my life what it would be like to have a sibling, but..." Her voice drops to a whisper. "I never was fortunate to have any family at all."

From the crest of the hill, he can already see the spread of the Nolans' land. Turning toward her, he takes her hands in his. "Emma, this may be too forward of me to say, but we ― Ruth, David, Mary Margaret, and I ― we can be there for you. We can be your family, if you let us."

She is slipping from his grasp, pulling away. Her expression is stormy and her gaze is bright with tears. "I wish that were true," she replies brokenly. "But I seem to disappoint people. I seem to always drive them away."

"No, you do not," he states firmly between gritted teeth. "We like you the way you are. You are remarkable and I..."

Their foreheads touch. His hand reassures her cheek, his thumb softly thrumming a caress over her skin. Her heartbeat is fluttering, anxious and confused. He wants to console her, to show her how much she means to him, but she needs to trust him. She needs to believe that he will never toy with her feelings. That to him, her heart is sacred. As the fable says, slow and steady wins the race. He must convince her. He must show her he is honest.

"I cannot imagine Storybrooke without you in it. I cannot imagine life without you here."

When they sigh together, he feels like he can breathe again.


	14. Broken Dreams

If it were not for all this shoddy business with Spencer, Killian would consider this to be a good day, since he can spend so much time with Emma.

The sight of David's anxious, taut face takes all that budding happiness away. Waving at them from his post in the field, he is forking hay into low piles, most likely planning to tie the loose strands into tight stacks so he can sell them.

Pursing his lips, Killian shakes his head. The man is always working, either tending to the sheep or the land. He dislikes pity and avoids anyone guilty of the emotion, never asking for help and only relying on himself to get the job done. He accepts Killian's aid but always returns the favor.

It is bloody hard not to try to assist the one person who has been such a good friend to him.

When they are but ten feet away, Emma whispers to Killian, "David looks upset."

He clears his throat and swallows down a bevy of answers. The lass is friends with Mary Margaret, and at this point, he is unsure if Dave has confided in his beloved. He wants to explain to her the reasons behind his friend's scowl, but David's desire to keep the news under the table was implicit in his reveal. Killian does not doubt that Emma is trustworthy, but she might question why David is keeping his conflict with Spencer a secret.

In the end, David alone must decide whom he wants to share his troubles with. Knowing how it feels to have your past exposed to the public, Killian cannot take away such a personal choice.

When they are in earshot, David glances at them again, mutters a low "good day," and hurries toward the old stables. Emma is bemused and moves as if to follow him, so Killian quickly steers her in the direction of the house.

Ruth is standing in the open doorway, troubled and sorrowful. She musters a smile as they draw near, but her gaze is pained. If she wants to share the truth with Emma, she will. Dave and his short temper are to be avoided, as he is not the sort of man who can be beleaguered with questions. When he is angry, he is easily provoked, and Emma has done nothing to deserve an outburst. Better for him to take out his frustration on the pitchfork than a worried friend.

Ruth's calm invitation to come inside puts Killian at ease. However frazzled her son might be, she is rational even amid a crisis. While she fusses with the seat covers and runs to soothe the hissing tea kettle, he focuses on the crackling fire consuming thick sticks and sending smoke up their chimney. An image comes to the forefront of his mind, of Ruth and David trying to comfort him one cold winter night after he went to the pub and swam his way to oblivion through a sea of rum.

They were the only people there for him when he needed someone to care, offering compassion and understanding and some damn  _hope_. There was no humiliation or pity in the woman's affection or Dave's good-natured humor.

Emma's grip on his arm brings him back to life. Killian meets her eyes, questioning his relapse, and reassures her by patting her hand with his and guiding her to the best chair. All the window curtains are open wide to let in as much light as possible, their hostess's attempt to dispel the shadows George has brought today. However, despite the sunny weather outside, the interior of the cottage is still sombre.

Ruth ushers a tray of tea and biscuits to them, settling into her rocking chair after she is sure they are comfortable. There is no hint of conversation when she takes up her knitting needles and continues her task of transforming dyed yarn into a colorful scarf.

When he subtly turns his head, he notices a trail of tears falling silently into the half-finished garment. Catching his gaze, Ruth purses her lips, leaning forward to seemingly pluck at a thread that has unraveled from her creation. Though she is staring hard at her teacup, Emma seems to have sensed the dark mood that has fallen over this house.

What can he say, when he can do nothing to help?

"This season is always bad for my eyes ― the wind makes them water, then turns my nose into a beet," she croaks out with a half-hearted chuckle.

With downcast eyes and a tight frown, Emma's expression saddens even more. She is truly a perceptive lass.

Killian takes careful, slow sips of tea and tries to not grimace every other second. "The wind is much worse up the cliffs. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, the old timbers creak so that I think the entire lighthouse will come tumbling down about my ears."

Sniffling, Ruth gives him a caring smile. "I worry for you, up there all alone." He groans inwardly when she adds, "You shouldn't be ― perhaps it is time you found a nice girl to settle down with, like David has."

Emma's lips have curled into a small smile.

He scratches behind his ear, unsure how to reply. "Good mother Ruth, I have no need for a wife, and no lady needs someone like me."

"Nonsense, Killian." She waves off his protests. His embarrassment increases when he feels his face flush. "You can offer any woman in this town a good home. You're a good boy ― you would make a fine husband and father. Don't you want that, someday?"

In truth, he does. He has always wanted someone to cherish and to stand by him. And he will not deny that the thought of wee ones hasn't crossed his mind over the years. But Milah's death is a constant reminder of what happens when he follows his own desires. It is better to sacrifice it all and cause no one pain, rather than subject another to hardship and anguish.

After all, it was partly his fault that Bae lost his mother.

"Aye," he finally says, nearly choking on a wave of remorse. "Every man wants that."

Emma is refusing to look at him now.  _He said something wrong again, damn it._

Luckily, Ruth turns her attention to her next. "How about you, my dear? Has any fellow in our quaint town caught your fancy yet?"

Her shoulders are bowed, and if it were not for the cup and saucer she's clutching to her lap, he is certain her arms would be wrapped around her chest, holding herself together. In that moment, Emma seems so small and fragile, as if she wants to disappear completely.

He peers up at her from under his eyelashes, wishing with all his might that she would give him one glance.

Suddenly, she does, and the pain there wounds him.

He knows the reasons behind Ruth's hurt. He knows their family history. He knows why David is currently chopping firewood with a vengeance, although there is a full pile of tinder in the shed.

But Emma is still a mystery. He has learned a little about her past, but the depths of her heart are fathomless waters he has not yet traversed.

One day, he intends to.

His sailing days are gone, but he still loves art and the freedom it brings him. Lieutenant Killian Jones may have been buried away in a corner of his soul long ago, but parts of him remain. The man he has become is more than willing to give her as much of himself as she will accept.

Her gaze softens, and he hears her whisper, "It is a little too early to tell."

Ruth clucks her disapproval. "The two of you are quite a pair, neither willing to take a chance on anyone."

"I wouldn't say that," Emma counters, offering him a tentative half-smile.

He wants to put the bloody tea aside and take her hands in his, but that would be untoward. Ruth would scold him mercilessly if she knew of their shared moments. That kiss still resonates in his dreams, by God.

"Aye, you're being too harsh," he teases, suddenly feeling better than he has all day.

After a quick knock, David himself pokes his head through the door. Ruth crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at him. He blushes. "Hullo Jones and...Miss Swan."

Killian jumps at the opening. "'Morning Dave ― I was telling Miss Swan here on the way over that Bessie is expecting."

The change from surprise to understanding in his expression is instantaneous. Before he can reply, Ruth says, "That she is, poor girl. She can barely move." She gives her son a pointed look. "I think she would love some company. Why don't you take Emma here and show her Bessie and the flock? Unless you would prefer not to," she adds, glancing at the lass. "I understand if―"

"No, I'd like that ― I would like that very much." Like the sun coming from behind a cloud, Emma's entire face brightens.

He is curious about this. As a governess, the families she worked for must have had enough space to maintain real stables and perhaps room for a cow. But David only has a flock of sheep and one dog. For someone as educated and sophisticated as she, there couldn't possibly be anything exciting about seeing that.

He must be wrong. Emma did ask Ruth if it was truly alright that they leave, but she is now running toward the makeshift stable, with poor David trying to keep up the pace.

Her enthusiasm makes him grin despite himself. He is about to join them when Ruth's voice holds him back at the doorway.

"Are you going to tell her, Killian?"

He turns to her. "About George?"

"Yes. And about yourself?" Her gaze is still kind, but more insistent than usual.

"She does not need to know about either." He shrugs, sticking his hands in the pockets of his trousers. "It is best that she is not involved."

Ruth shakes her head at him. "Oh, my dear. She  _is_  involved. The only way she can cast off her connection to us is to renounce friendship with all of us ― including you."

The thought of Emma doing that upsets his stomach. To hear her say that she wants nothing to do with him would hurt beyond imagining.

"You care for her already, don't you?" When he glances at her in surprise, her smile is encouraging but sad. "I noticed the way you looked at her. It is good she has brought you hope again."

His nails dig into his palms. "I do not believe that Emma ―  _Miss Swan_  ― would abandon her friends because of a man like George."

"Perhaps she has never encountered a man like him. If so, it is our duty to keep her safe. If he tries to drag us all down, at least she can be spared. She is a good girl, sweet and thoughtful."

She walks over to him and squeezes his hand. "Killian, I only want the best for both of you. You are the brother David never had, and I am grateful that you've given him that. No matter what happens, remember that love is always worth fighting for."

* * *

The stable is really a dilapidated, weather-worn building that has three stalls and a bit of room for storing feed. It has been mended many times, judging by the number of new wooden boards creating a chessboard pattern with the old.

Even though it is a tiny corner in comparison to Locksley's stables, Emma loves the warmth of this one, the way the sheep huddle together and stand at ease in their makeshift home. Bessie turns out to be a blue-eyed collie, resting her muzzle on her paws with a mournful expression. David explained that her litter is due to be born very soon, so the size of her swollen belly is preventing her from running after the flock. Apologizing for the muck on the floor, he rushes off to grab her a stool.

She decides to settle on the soft pile of straw instead, holding out her hand to Bessie's nose. The dog eagerly sniffs it before licking her fingertips. By the time David is back with the stool, she is scratching behind Bessie's ears and trying not to make a fool of herself as she grins widely at the collie's reaction, which is to close her eyes and pant toothily.

When he gives her some rock salt for the sheep, the moment escalates. Ewes are scrambling onto her lap to reach for the treat. Surrounded by wool, Emma is laughing as David tries and fails to pull the nearest sheep away, realizing an instant too late that he has just laid hands on the ram. With lowered head and stomping hooves, it is preparing to attack.

His timely hero happens to be Killian, who opens the stable door just as the ram charges forward and runs at David. With their leadership gone, the sheep bleat before following as a group in the ram's steps, stumbling out the door.

"Seems your lovely flock has found themselves a new shepherd." Killian slips his hands into his trouser pockets, seemingly at ease as he leans against the doorway. However, though he schools his expression into one of indifference, she sees a flicker of deep sadness in his eyes. She thought their conversation with Ruth inspired some cheer to chase away any melancholy.

David does not laugh at his friend's attempt at a jest. Frustrated, he flings the bag of salt into the nearest stall. "As if I needed that to happen." He stomps past Killian, the volume of his voice rising. "Now I have to waste a whole damn hour gathering those stupid animals  _again_."

"I can sit and watch them," she hears herself say.

Both men give her looks of surprise.

"What?" She shrugs. "How hard can it really be? Sheep are not that adventurous."

David sighs, and his shoulders slump. The tension in his face dissipates. "I appreciate the offer, Miss Swan, but I do not want to be a bother." After gazing at each corner of the stable, he hangs his head. "I'm sure you have better things to do than watch my silly flock graze in circles."

Noticing his shepherd's crook propped against the wall, she gets up and takes it in hand. It is carved from fine willow bark ― she knows the texture of that wood by heart now. Strong and sturdy. "See," she motions to her new stance, straight posture and firm grip on the crook. "I'm half-prepared. The rest simply requires patience."

One eyebrow raised, Killian is smirking. "Ah, Dave, how can you refuse an offer like that? The lass clearly wants to help." David tries to protest, but his friend cuts him off. "Of course, you can't let her leave empty-handed. Perhaps a promised favor will satisfy Miss Swan as payment."

Eyebrows raised, David gives her a questioning glance and the barest hint of a smile.

"Favors," she grins, "are gladly accepted."

* * *

"You don't know George the way my family does. You don't know what he is capable of," David mumbles. He winds twine around the stack of hay Killian is holding in place with his arms and legs. "If you did, you would barricade yourself in that lighthouse and not come out until he's gone, back to his hideout of a mansion."

Tightening his grip on the stack, he replies through gritted teeth, "You're forgetting that that demon of a man already knows my history. He could destroy me with a careless whisper. So no,  _Dave_ , I am not going to skulk in my wretched house while you withstand his bloody siege on your own."

"Some would say I'm being foolish." He sighs as he ties the final knot. "George is offering me everything any man could want ― power, money, a title, connections ― and I'm throwing it all away."

"But you said yourself that it would be all a lie. You love the farm and your family ― your  _true_  family, David. You cannot leave them."

"It doesn't matter. He will hurt them." David's voice breaks. "He'll hurt my mother and Mary Margaret to hurt me, if I don't do what he wants. I cannot let that happen, Killian." He lets the hay fall to the ground with a thud, reaching for the pitchfork.

When his friend starts stabbing at the ground with the damn tool, Killian lays a hand on his shoulder to stop him. "Hey. We  _will_  fight this. I promise you, we will find a way."

"Glad you're so confident," he snaps back. "I am not."

Realization hits Killian like a breaking wave against the shore. "You are not actually considering his offer, are you?"

David glares at him. "I am  _thinking_  about what is best for all of us. It's my sacrifice to make."

"Oh, how bloody noble of you." Images of Liam cross his mind. His brother gave him the same excuses and then got himself killed in the line of duty ― a sacrifice that benefited no one. "So what will you tell your sweetheart, eh? That her beloved fiancé is spineless in the face of danger? That you cannot defy that arse because you're afraid of him? That it's hopeless―"

He snaps and grabs Killian by the collar, shaking him. "Don't you get it? I do not see another way out of this! I have a father I barely remember, and a brother I never met, to thank for these goddamn chains."

"Chains can be broken."

With a frustrated groan, David lets go of him. "Not if you don't have the means to do it."

"That's bloody nonsense. You have people who will help you, if you ask. Go to the town council ― tell them what happened―"

"And shame my mother? Expose family secrets that are better left buried?"

"What is your life worth to you?" The man must be mad, refusing to resist the hold George has on him. "Unless you stand up to him now, he will blackmail you for as long as you both live."

"There are consequences!"

"Either way, there are consequences." Killian's voice drops to a whisper. "You need to gain trust, not push people away. Tell Mary Margaret the truth. Tell Emma. Tell even bloody Pastor Hopper, if need be. Find the folk in this town who will support you, and rally them to your side. Spencer cannot fight half of Storybrooke if they defend you. He is but one man. Strength is in numbers."

"You and your fine words." David rolls his eyes. "You're forgetting that George can ruin everything."

Liam's smiling face and his kindness blind his vision, provoking him to say, "Mate, death ruins everything. You are alive and you are strong. No matter the sins of your father and brother, you are not them. You are David Nolan. Don't let anyone take away what is yours." He swallows hard. "At least you have something ― a future ― to fight for."

Taking a deep breath, his friend finally nods his consent.

* * *

The grass is unusually dry for this time of year. It is soft and fragrant, filling her nose and her lungs with the deepest sense of calm she has experienced in a long time.

Looking up at the sky, Emma smiles to herself at the thought of Killian's smile, admiring and proud, as she herded the sheep around her, bag of salt in hand. How he glanced back at her, before following David to help him bind stacks of hay for feed.

She had perched upon a flat rock before swimming into the alluring green and yellow waves, spread out for miles until they seem to brush the sun on the distant horizon. Here is an ocean of a different kind, grounded and sure but still mysterious. Like the sea, the earth has its own secrets.

These fields remind her of the many picnics she spent with Graham on his estate, the way she always liked exploring Robin's vast acres of land.

Worry suddenly pops into her head, the contents of a sincere letter from her dear former student. She should have replied to him by now, but she has had no time to consider his proposal. She still cannot bring herself to write back, although she knows her delayed response is hurting him. While she may not harbor the same feelings for Graham as he does for her ― another subject she has not let herself really dwell on, lest the answer reveal itself ― she cares for him deeply. She needs to reply, and soon. She has to stop pushing away the inevitable.

What bothers her is that no matter which choice she makes, it will be the wrong one. She gave up on marriage and dreams of romance years ago. Allowing Graham to give her a fairytale ending will simultaneously take away her purpose for living, the drive and determination that gives her strength to wake up each morning and make her way. She has formed a life for herself, by herself. And she alone can maintain it. As her husband, he would be in control, adjoining her future to his.

Would she have a better future alone, or with him?

Her independence is all she has left. She needs to keep fighting for it. Marriage is a fantasy she cannot afford. If he was offering her a place in his home, as his adopted sister... That would be a different scenario. Her yearning for family and home would be fulfilled.

As it is, she finds herself in the midst of a dilemma: she wants to keep his friendship, but she does not want to break his heart.

Just as quickly, her thoughts drift to the Nolans, Ruth's devotion to David and his attachment to Mary Margaret. Their combined strength of character seems unbreakable, a stronghold of love. They support their friends and value them with the utmost sincerity; the few months she has been here testifies to that. What would they think of her choices and the possibility of her leaving Storybrooke so soon? Would any of them care? Does she want them to, when it might mean they would try to convince her to stay?

Then there is Killian himself, offering her hope.

Her mind is in such turmoil that it is tiring to think at all. It is simpler to succumb to laziness. Slowly, measuring every breath, she allows her eyes to close and her body to sink into the swaying grass, drowning in earth and light.

Favors will not do her any good now. If David were a genie from one of those fairy tales, able to grant her a wish, she knows exactly what would erase all the worry and uncertainty, relax her troubled heart.

She longs for one last horse ride, to meet the sky and run away from it all.

_She is spending too much time in his company. She knows this. And yet, she cannot stop herself from coming to the stables and seeking him out._

_Neal seems to be well loved by the horses he tends. Though when he introduced her to Rose's mother, a fine mare named Leela with a strong sense of curiosity, this horse was not so friendly towards him. She nipped at his fingers and pushed his hand away. As a result, Emma was cautious, but to her great surprise, Leela took a liking to her. Now, whenever she visits the stalls, the older mare is the first to neigh in greeting, eager for treats and a brush down. Neal says she is the most headstrong, adventurous horse he has ever encountered. Emma thinks he's trying to make excuses for Leela's obvious dislike of him._

_Nonetheless,_ she _likes him, and she is willing to sacrifice all her free time to be around him._

_Most of the time, they go riding together and later walk their horses back through the fields. All the while, she is learning so much from him, not only about horses. He is articulate but reserved, never sharing too many details about his past. From what she can gather, he is an only child, and his relationship with his parents must have been unhappy enough to push him far away from home. He rarely speaks of his family, never mentions why they are estranged._

_She understands that. Her childhood is a hurt that she does not want to expose. She would have to trust him more than she does now in order to share that part of herself. Discussing their preferences and views on the world is much easier than opening up their souls to each other._

"Just what are you doing here, all alone?"

Emma sits up with a start. Her vision is blurry and her head feels muddled. Coming to focus, she decides that she imagined a voice asking her questions, that it must have been the bleats of the sheep around her that woke her up.

 _Dear Lord, no._ She fell asleep. Reprimanding herself for being a terrible shepherd, Emma rises to her feet, brushing off grass from her skirts and trying to regain her footing.

The sheep seem to be undisturbed, ruminating quietly in small groups. The sky is still a perfectly clear blue, and sunshine is pouring down on her.

The only thing out of place is the stranger sitting astride a horse, looking at her with an unmistakable sneer on his face. His expression goes blank before she can decide what it means.

_Am I still dreaming?_

"Cat got your tongue, girl?"

Her anger flares, burning her reason. "You will address me with respect,  _sir_. I am no mere girl, and I do not speak to strange men without so much as an introduction."

"Oh, I beg your pardon." His tone is anything but apologetic. "If it will console you, my name is Keith Garrison, Miss...?"

"If you have business to conduct with the Nolans, Mr. Nolan is currently occupied." Her refusal to recognize his name, as well as offer her own, is the best insult she can contrive at the moment.

Mr. Garrison chuckles, tightening his hold on the reins on his burly horse. It snorts its disapproval. "That's alright. You will find I'm a patient man. I'm willing to wait as long as it takes."

His enigmatic statement, and the way his gaze glitters menacingly, cause a twinge of fear to run up her spine. He is lying about his purpose for coming. "Why are you really here?" she demands. "This is private property ― I am quite certain that the owners would not approve of your roaming about without their knowledge or their consent."

Tipping his head back, the man laughs. Then he clucks at her, tongue rolling between bright teeth. "So brave. I must say, this is going to be more enjoyable than I was told."

Without another word, he smirks and turns the chestnut steed around, trotting off until he is out of sight, gone from the Nolans' land.

* * *

Damn it all, her hands are shaking. She searches frantically for the shepherd's crook, holding onto it for dear life when she finds it lying next to her feet.

This Keith Garrison said he was told to come here. That means  _someone_  asked him to. His calm, arrogant demeanor does not bode well, as if he has a job to complete and he is ready to get to work. Between Ruth's sadness, Killian's unease, and David's anxiety, something is brewing under the surface, sinister and threatening.

Gathering her resolve, Emma makes her decision. She is going to draft her reply to Graham and send it out tomorrow morning, even if she has to run to catch the post. She needs time to figure this all out ― her life, her future and its possibilities. More importantly, she is not going anywhere or marrying anyone until she knows that the Nolans and Killian are safe and in no danger. Loyalty is important to her.

From the look of Garrison and his bold words, a fight is beginning. If any of her new friends are involved, her stance is certain. It does not matter if she is letting her feelings overcome her rational mind, or if she cares more than she should.

She owes it to herself to wait, to bide her time and see what will happen here in Storybrooke. Going back to Graham means running away again from her problems.

_Neal ran away from his problems. And she ran away from him. Running away is giving in to fear._

She will not be afraid ― not this time.


	15. Lost in the Woods

_She is alone, and she is frightened._

_The last family was too much ― the father, a lecherous drunk who used his own children to scrounge up enough coin to pay his account at the pub; the mother, a mean-spirited woman who worked the streets at night to gather funds to pay for rent and food._

_Orphans are never loved. They are used to benefit their caretaker, whether it be for pleasure or money or work. No parent she has met so far ever cared about her well-being for her own sake. Most wanted her to be healthy enough so she wouldn't collapse while working like a slave for them._

_The orphanage she grew up in is tired of taking her back. She already has been labeled a troublemaker, a rebel ― all because she cannot stand the thought of being condemned to a family who only wants to use her._

_Whoever her birth parents are, she hates them. They abandoned her to a future where no one will help her or fight on her behalf. Believing in others, giving them a chance, trusting them... It is, ultimately, utterly worthless._

_She is better off on her own. Which is why she fled to the streets, hoping something would change._

_But it is the seventh night of running. She stole as many old vegetables and bread as she could from the garbage heaps behind the shops, hoping the meager fare would be enough to quell her hungry stomach. The days go by easily, when she can spend them in the parks, begging for alms at street corners. After the sun sets, she begins to feel the cold of the night, the wretched dark alleys and holes under porches that she has to hide in so she can get some sleep. She has been chased away from the churches she tried to stay in, cowering under the pews although the crucifix is hanging right on the wall, reminding folk that Christ too had no home and suffered all his life. But there is no compassion, no mercy. One pastor gave her a sound scolding before expelling her._

_She is fourteen and has no place to stay, no home to go to._

_The one ragged coat she owns does nothing to prevent ice from seeping into her bones. It is not even winter yet. How will she cope when it snows?_

_Nighttime is endless trudging in meaningless directions, hoping against hope that someone will see her plight and offer her some temporary shelter. The wind is unyielding, raking at her skin. She is not prepared to be on her own._

_The tall cross affixed to the steeple of the next building tells her this is Saint Mary's Church. It is supposed to be a refuge for the misfortunate; the patron saint whose name it bears was offered forgiveness and love and peace by Christ Himself. But the priest who lives in the rectory next door made it very clear that she and "her kind" are unwelcome here._

_All she can do is take a seat on the lonely stone bench bordering the premises._

_Timidly, she raises her eyes up to the stars. Mysterious and untouchable. She longs to be up in that sky, shining so brightly and without a care in the world. They are beautiful, respected, needed. They are beloved. They are home._

_She curses the tear that falls down her nose, dripping into her mouth. It is quietly followed by another, then another. Shivering when a gust tears at her clothing, she bites down hard on her lip to stifle any sounds that might give her away._

_Even if she freezes to death this night, no one would care. That is how much Emma Swan matters._

" _Someone as lovely as you should not be crying."_

_Through bleary eyes, she makes out the shape of a handkerchief, dangling from a hand. A man's gloved hand._

" _Thank you," she says miserably, looking at the piece of fabric with disgust. "But I am fine."_

" _Are you?" The handkerchief retreats to its place of origin. "You look quite cold and sad. Propriety dictates I cannot leave a lady in distress."_

_Finally, she gathers the courage to look up at the owner of the voice. He is dressed in the attire of a gentleman, top hat included. Brown eyes and a disarming smile compliment what appears to be a handsome, lined face. He must be older than twenty._

" _I'm Benjamin Walsh. Most people call me Walsh." He offers a gloved hand._

_She could be more trusting. But dread is filling the pit of her stomach, telling her to run. Looking around, Emma notices that the adjoining streets are void of passersby. The apartments in the nearby buildings have almost no lit windows._

_They are alone._

_She cannot evade him that easily._

" _How old are you, my dear?"_

_She gulps, trying to keep her tears at bay and focus her mind on some path of escape. "If you are claiming to be a gentleman, that is a rude question."_

" _For someone suddenly concerned about manners, you have not completed our introduction." His fingers move._

" _I'm Emma." She tentatively slips her hand in his. He bends to kiss it._

" _Emma, you're a vision. Please allow me the honor of escorting you home."_

_Her head is ringing from fear. His words are glazed with sincerity, but his tone is not._

" _There is no need," she manages to say. "I was just...praying. To Saint Mary."_

" _Were you, now?" He seems amused by her reply. "What well-bred lady wanders alone on the streets after dark?"_

_The insinuation is a slap to the face. Her cheeks are aflame. Holding back an angry retort, she drops any pretense of politeness. "What is it you want from me, Mr. Walsh?"_

_The change in his expression is unsettling, as if a heavy mask has been peeled off. "Hmm. You're smarter than the girls I usually encounter."_

_She is afraid to say anything that will put her in worse danger._

" _Let me take a guess: you have nowhere to go. And you need money." His smirk causes her heart to lurch desperately. "I'm only asking for you to stay one night. Trust me, you will be paid handsomely for your time. I will make it worth your while."_

" _I am not a lady of the night," she spits out through gritted teeth, a rush of shame flooding her veins. What if it does come to that? That she will be forced to sell her body in order to survive?_

_Walsh's smile grows wider. "I know. That's exactly why I want you. You see...I'm the kind of man who prefers a clean bed, if you catch my meaning. I also play by the book, so there are no complications."_

_The nausea building in her stomach is too much to bear. She does not know if she should take a chance and run, or wait out his proposal and watch him walk away. The odds of her winning a fight against him are poor._

" _I'll tell the constable," she threatens. "I'll scream right now."_

_He tsks. "And when he hears you're a vagrant, living on the streets? He'll more likely throw you into prison than me."_

_Her whole body is trembling. She is penniless and on the point of starving. When he waves a hefty stack of banknotes in front of her nose, she feels her resolve cave in. What he is offering could last for a month of expenses. She could eat a decent meal every day. She could rent a boarding room. She could―_

_But something inside her refuses to give in. It could be her pride, her sense of dignity._

_Or perhaps she believes in herself more than she thought._

_She tilts her chin up and crosses her arms in her best defiant pose. "I would rather die."_

" _How_ _dramatic ― but I don't buy your act." His eyes narrow before he reaches out and grabs her by the arm, pulling her up from her seat. Forced to her feet, she cries out from pain. "I'm running out of options, and I have a taste for a blonde tonight. True, you're not my first pick, but you'll do nicely for what I need from you."_

_She struggles to release herself, but his grip is strong and cruel. He is about to drag her forward when an unknown voice commands, "Let her go this instant."_

_Walsh drops her arm as if burnt._

_A woman is standing less than ten feet away. Judging by how she is dressed, Emma surmises that she is a nun._

" _She stole my wallet ― I was just trying to get it back." The liar scowls for good measure._

_Her heart pounds desperately._

_The nun purses her lips, and her eyes harden. "This girl is a child of God. She is not an object you can use for your own pleasure. Her body is a temple of the Holy Spirit and is therefore sacred." Walsh looks like he is about to protest when she continues, "I would highly suggest that in future, if you seek out worldly gain, you visit those sordid establishments created for that sinful purpose, instead of preying on underage girls."_

_He opens his mouth again. She silences him with an upraised hand. "If I ever see you soliciting children again, I can assure you that you will be hearing from the local authorities who do fear the Lord. Good night to you, and may God have mercy on your soul."_

_Walsh's scowl twists into something ugly. He spits on the ground, cursing while he gives Emma one final, hate-filled glance. "My apologies. I was mistaken, Sister. There's nothing but trash here."_

_He tips his hat at the nun before turning on his heel and stomping off, melting into the shadows of the streets._

_Emma's gaze flickers between his disappearing form and her savior. She bites down on her bottom lip to quiet a whimper, but it only works for a moment. Wretched sobs crawl out of her mouth until she is on her knees, rocking against the bench, her face buried in her hands._

" _I am so sorry, my child, that you had to go through that. Is it true, what the man said? You don't have a place to stay?"_

" _Yes._ _I'm an orphan," she chokes out, still unable to look at the nun in the eye._

" _Why aren't you at an orphanage? Have you come of age?" she inquires._

" _I'm fourteen." Emma sniffles. Her nose is runny. "I ran away."_

_There is a period of silence before the nun speaks once more. "If you come with me, I can get you a hot meal and a room for tonight. Tomorrow, we will figure out what to do." Carefully, she reaches out and places a hand on Emma's shoulder. "But you will need to trust me. I know that's a difficult task, but it is your choice, child. I cannot make it for you."_

_The shock and fury running through every part of her body transform into understanding. This woman ― Sister ― is asking her to choose. In some way, she respects Emma, as a person. "Please don't send me back to the orphanage," she pleads. "I cannot go back there."_

_The nun's gaze softens. "Have faith, dear. I will do everything in my power to make sure you are taken care of." Her other hand is extended. "I am Mother Superior, of the Sisters of Saint Meissa Convent. I am staying here in the city while I speak with my superiors."_

_Wordlessly, Emma places her hand in hers._

" _Dear heavens, you're freezing. Here...take my shawl. Hopefully, Father has some warm soup and bread left over from supper." She wraps a woolen cape around Emma's shoulders. They begin to walk in the direction of the rectory. "What's your name?"_

 _The warmth of the fabric soothes her worries._ _"_ _Emma. Emma Swan."_

" _Emma..." Instead of looking ahead, Mother Superior appears lost in thought. "Tell me, what do you think about going to school?"_

* * *

After guiding the sheep back inside the stables (the bag of salt is a wonderful incentive) and making sure Bessie is fine, Emma searches the fields for the unmistakable forms of Killian and David. However, they are nowhere to be seen. When she enters the Nolans' small cottage, Ruth tells her that David went to the village half an hour ago, on an errand. Killian is wandering somewhere in the nearby woods.

"It brings him peace, he says," she explains, swiping curls away from her face as she kneads dough for bread. "I tell him to be careful and not catch a cold while he is out there, lost in thought. If you ask me, the poor man would be better off talking more to people than staying alone so much, but he's grown and can decide for himself. I don't want him to feel suffocated by my mothering ― David already complains enough for two."

"I doubt that," Emma counters with a smile. "I know I wouldn't."

Ruth smiles back, but her eyes are sad again. She ushers Emma out with a basket of homemade scones and biscuits. It is quite heavy. "For you and Killian," she offers. "I know he enjoys my wild blueberry scones ― I made them just for him, with the last of the winter berries. But don't tell him that."

The kindness of this gentle woman astounds her. Feeling brash, she turns around at the last possible moment and embraces Ruth with one arm, whispering, "Thank you. For everything."

"No need, dear." She strokes Emma's hair, a mother's comforting gesture. "You're part of our family now. We are always here for you."

* * *

It is odd for Storybrooke, being right by the sea, to have such a vibrant glen of trees and its own woods. Perhaps she is being ignorant and all seaside towns have such diverse landscapes.

Or this place could be special, an exception.

Emma often walked through the dense forests of Robin's and Graham's estate, but those lands held more risk for her safety. This town is quiet and aloof. She has a good chance of escaping if something goes wrong. She is not afraid.

It certainly is not worse than walking on the city streets by herself, at night.

_Perhaps she wants to get lost here, to lose herself._

Gliding by unknown shrubs, nearly tripping over large tree roots... The budding leaves overhead create a texture of shadow on the ground below. The unmarked trail she is on leads her to a large oak tree, with giant roots forming a niche she can curl into.

Except that someone is already sitting there, with his legs comfortably stretched out in front of him.

Tongue between his teeth, Killian keeps his eyes fixed ahead, while his fingers gently move the charcoal stick over what appears to be paper in a sketchbook. He must be drawing something ― a tree, or perhaps a rock.

Then he glances at her as she approaches, and a brilliant smile spreads across his face. The curve of his lips does not waver, not for a moment. Her heart is jumping. She forces her feet forward when he waves her over, depositing the basket of goods right by his feet.

"What do you think of this?" He traces the lines of his sketch, caressing it with his fingertips.

Art was a subject she was reluctant to participate in at school, always certain her creative skills were lacking. Still, she can appreciate artistic talent when she sees it. And Killian _is_ talented. He has the uncanny ability to capture so much through his vision and touch.

Emma half-smiles. "I think your tree is ready to leap off the page and take root in your garden." As she leans down to have a closer look, locks of her hair accidentally fall from her shoulders and dangle in front of his face. "Your shading is beautiful and pronounced."

"The shading? Beautiful?" His voice deepens. One golden curl brushes his nose. "On the contrary, there is a truly beautiful sight right in front of me, and it is _not_ a bloody tree."

The pointed compliment is meant to please her. However, it has the opposite effect: she stiffens. She does not need fine words to make her feel like she is worth something. Neal said she was beautiful and clever and accomplished. But as soon as difficulties arose, he shattered this image of her with a few choice phrases. Words hold too much power in this world.

"I've upset you." Killian is trying to meet her eyes. "Lass, I―"

"I came out here because you were gone, and I was worried about you," she says in one breath, hands clutching her arms. "You haven't upset me, truly."

He cocks his head, gleaning the truth with that penetrating gaze of his. "Did I say too much too soon?'"

Turning her back on him and his drawing, she tries to focus on the army of tree trunks before them. Scuffling noises resound in her ears. Then out of the corner of her vision, she notices he is standing next to her, brushing himself off.

"Emma..." he murmurs. His fingers brush over hers. "You can always talk to me, about anything you wish. We are friends, aye?"

A flood of guilt fills her chest. She has hurt his feelings without meaning to. "Of course we're friends," she confirms with a nod. "There's no need to apologize."

Tentatively, his hand hovers about her own. Then his palm slides over hers and folds, and their fingers intertwine. It is an innocent, intimate touch, a sign of assurance and care. Despite that, his skin awakens her, causing a flutter of warmth to soothe her nerves.

"Did you learn yourself? How to draw and paint?"

She should not be startled by such a presumption. Clearly, she must have gone to school in order to become a teacher ― that's logical.

"Forgive me if I was too forward." He ducks his head, rubbing at the back of his neck. "You have such a keen eye, and your critiques of my artwork are...discerning."

"I was taught," she says quickly. Thinking about her time at the convent's school, and how eye-opening it was, reopens the wound of her past naïveté as a young girl. _And a young woman, falling in love with the wrong man._ "But I'm afraid I never did practice enough to hone my skills as an artist. My drawings are poor."

"I would have to see them for myself in order to believe that."

"No, it was my fault ― I was more dedicated to the piano than my sketchbook, back in the day. However...I can manage a simple sketch."

He hands his sketchbook to her. "Show me?"

Clutching the sharpened charcoal stick, she struggles to capture the nearest tree trunk. The result is a series of rigid lines trying to imitate the texture of bark. When she attempts to draw sprouting branches at the base of the trunk, her drawing suddenly seems childish and wrong, a foolish waste of time.

Huffing, she gives the sketchbook back to him. "It looks like a bunch of sticks, not a tree."

"I disagree." He cocks his head, staring thoughtfully at her handiwork. "Your impatience is curbing your potential ― not to mention, you chose a difficult subject to draw, love. Here..." He walks toward a patch of wildflowers, not too far off. "Try again. One flower, not the whole group. Slowly."

She reluctantly sidles toward him, accepting the sketchbook once again. Complete silence crashes against her ears as she focuses on the largest flower's petals, noticing the foreshortening, where the shadows fall. She makes every moment count. Killian says nothing the entire time, simply watching her work. By all accounts, she should feel flustered, but she is oddly comforted by his presence ― as if he were indeed her teacher, guiding her progress.

"See," he smiles, tracing the lines of her finished drawing, "that's much better. You have a gift, Emma. With a little more practice, you could achieve great wonders."

A blush creeps over her cheeks. "You're too kind."

"I am serious, lass ― I know what I am talking about. I've seen a lot of art, spread across the world like a bloody mantle, all the artists claiming to be God-sent and talented up to their ears. But to find someone who truly has art in their very fingertips, without practice... This is rare. Even I doubt my own abilities, and I've had years of practice. You can achieve so much more, having a knack for drawing." His tone becomes wistful, and his eyes sadden.

She wants him to feel better, but if she cannot help herself, how can she help him? "For what it's worth, I think you're exceptionally talented, Killian," she whispers, barely daring to breathe as she presses the closed sketchbook into his arms.

Her hands linger on the leather cover. Quietly, his fingers inch across the surface, reaching her, and his gaze is determined.

"I believe you, Swan," he murmurs with conviction.

She is mesmerized by the rays of light shining through his hair and dancing about his forehead. When he leans forward and lowers his head, she thinks his face is as golden as the sun, and his eyes are the sky. Her heart is already helpless, fluttering and fighting to be free, just by being near him. She could easily feel too much for this man.

As if from a great distance, she hears herself say, "When the portrait is finished, and I've paid you what I owe you... Would you teach me more? About art? I can pay for―"

"I do not want your money, Miss Swan." His jaw tightens. "Consider the painting, and the artistic advice, a welcoming present from one of Storybrooke's locals."

She realizes her offer could be misconstrued as pity for a broken man. How can she explain how drawn she is to him, without conveying emotions that might wound her?

"Thank you." She glances warily at him. "May I ask you something?"

"Aye?" he replies gruffly.

"Who takes care of the lighthouse ― the rooms, the cleaning, the laundry? Do you cook for yourself?" Blushing, she tries to not imagine Killian searching for clean clothes. Then a sadder picture enters her mind: he is bent over the small table in his kitchen, late in the evenings and early in the mornings, with no one to share his meal or his thoughts. The loneliness in that house is like a stifling breath of stale air, causing lungs to ache.

There is bitterness in his tone when he snaps, "Of course not. Being bloody one-handed, a bloke has to accustom himself to the fact that he is unable to do many things by himself. I barely can button my shirts, let alone wash them. I keep a tidy household, but dust and dirt creep in despite my aversion to both, so I have to sweep and mop as often as I can. Once every two weeks, the good Mrs. Lucas and her granddaughter stop by to put clean clothes on the line outside, cook me a decent meal, speak a word or two to me. Sometimes she does more than what I pay her for and leaves extra vittles to last for a week."

This is a world of trouble, what she is about to request. Even though she is always free to put a halt to their friendship, the deepest part of her knows that she will never do that. Her mind reasons with her senses one last time, begging her to reconsider for the sake of safety and every precaution.

"I can do that." She clears her throat and repeats the words, louder, when his lips part from shock. "I can take care of those chores, in exchange for lessons. I don't want money either. I want to learn what you can teach me."

"Emma, this wouldn't be a few sittings in a studio, to be over by the completion of the work." His eyes are dark and serious, boring into her like navy adamantine. "This would be a greater personal commitment, on your part and mine. I cannot promise you," he swallows hard, "that I will always have the proper temperament that a teacher should, or that I will always be solicitous when you come to call. This assistance that the Lucases provide... It is a fixture in my life, and _bloody damnation_ , I need it. I need the help, though I despise it. Accepting help pains me, pains my temper until it's dangling by a thread of forbearance. Do you understand what I am trying to say? Perhaps you couldn't handle...such an arrangement. They are paid to be here, and dear Granny is a spitfire herself. You would have to endure my company twice over, and not always when I'm in good spirits."

Emma has weathered so many tempests in her life, from the beginning until now. Should she damn her heart for beating, for feeling the very things that keep her alive? She recalls his fury all too well. But she has vowed to shut fear out and keep it from entering her mind again.

"I know what you mean," she countered, unblinkingly, "but I'm not afraid of you, Killian Jones, or your temper. I am not made of stone, but I am also not made out of feathers. I can handle this."

A slow, bright grin warms his lips. "Well, only time will tell. But I've yet to see you fail at anything you undertake."

* * *

They divide the contents of Ruth's basket evenly, despite her insistence that Killian take all of the blueberry scones for himself. His refusal, combined with repeated assurances that he is a gentleman and would never deprive a lady of such lovely treats, is rather sweet in itself. She accepts his offer to escort her home, cherishing the way he gently tucks her arm into the crook of his elbow. Once her door closes on his smiling face, she recalls how she just might have rested her head on his shoulder as they walked, not caring about who was watching.

At least they can have these wonderful moments together, in spite of what storms the future may throw at them.

At the very least, despite all hardships and doubts, they have a friendship that will hold firm.

And that knowledge ― that she has someone like Killian, someone she can truly rely on ― means everything to her.

* * *

_Even as she climbs down from the carriage, Emma can still feel her teeth rattle inside her head. The bumpy, uncomfortable ride lasted for hours, confining her to a small space with nothing but dreams of the future to console her._

_Mother Superior fell asleep the moment they embarked from the city. The day before, they had an early breakfast before the kind nun took Emma straight to a line of shops. They returned to the rectory with several boxes of new garments and school supplies, in preparation for her transformation ― from homeless orphan, to proper student._

_Her braided hair, the smile on her face, and her stomach feel tight. But for all of her nervousness, Emma is excited to be here, to step into a world where there is only opportunity to expand into more, not shrink into nothing._

_Walsh's advances, and the sneers of the foster parents she lived with, made her feel like she was worth nothing._

_But crossing the threshold of this place, with its stone walls and clean glass windows..._

_She feels strong._

" _We don't take education lightly here, my dear Emma." Mother Superior smiles at her, walking up the steps. "There is a world out there, brimming with knowledge and light and peace, giving you the tools you need to build a strong path for yourself. All of this can be yours, if you put your mind to your studies and work hard at bettering yourself. We impose no limits at our school. All of our girls have the chance to find a new future for themselves."_

_Smiling up at the welcoming sisters, who greet their Reverend Mother with joyous faces, Emma knows she can do this. She live among these surroundings, where there is only hope. She can become all that she is meant to be, all that she wants to be. She will learn and thrive._

_She is not nothing._

_She was never nothing._

_Everything those cruel people told her, with their wagging tongues and hurtful hands, was a lie._

_Out of the darkness of her beginnings, she has found her way here._

_She has finally discovered the sunlight._

" _Welcome to Saint Meissa School for girls," come the calling voices who usher Emma into her new home._


	16. The Sunday Social

The new day brings Emma out of a restless sleep, hurrying dizzily within the small space of the cottage. While she completes her morning toilette, washing her face and pinning her hair into a simple chignon, her hands shake uncontrollably. Her eyelids feel heavy. She has to pick up her feet when she walks toward her wardrobe, searching for a clean dress to wear.

Today, she must catch the post before it leaves the town limits. But each movement she makes seems slow and strained, delaying her.

She decides to skip her usual repast in favor of making her way from the center of town to the schoolhouse. Before she locks the door, she slips her letter to Graham under her coat. It would not do for the townspeople to notice that she, an unmarried woman, is writing to a man unrelated to her. Hurtful gossip is far from welcome in her life.

Her steps are measured and stiff, taking her past house windows and tiny shops until she reaches the _rendezvous_ point.

The post is one wagon and one driver, who is preparing for departure while his forlorn mule paws the ground impatiently. There are no passengers, but the back of the wagon is filled with packages and a colossal bag of envelopes, as well as some goods and miscellaneous items. It will reach the nearest city within a week's time, and then another week will pass before her letter will be on its way to Graham's university, where he is situated. Thank goodness she bought a leaflet of stamps from the post office before coming to Storybrooke.

 _Godspeed, Graham_ , she whispers to herself, tucking her envelope into the overflowing bag, peering about to make sure no one is watching. The beige parchment immediately blends in with its siblings, unrecognizable but for her own cursive handwriting.

It is hard to part with the written words that will wound the closest friend she has had in years. But it has to be done. Ever since they met, there has been only honesty between them. What good would it do to deceive Graham now? After all he has been through, he deserves the truth. Somehow, she trusts he will understand why she cannot accept his proposal.

Emma wraps her shawl more tightly around her, a burst of cool wind whipping its soft tassels against her arms. Well, she cannot tarry here until the wagon driver rides off. If she arrives early at the schoolhouse, she will have time to prepare today's lesson and make sure the room is tidy before the children arrive. Eyes fixed on the peeking tip of her envelope, she holds that image in mind as assurance that her reply will safely reach its destination. Despite her limited experience in dealing with men, she is certain she will not be hearing from Graham for some time.

The driver tightens the heavy, thick drawstring of the bag so that its contents are protected.

"Wait! Wait, I need to send this out!"

August rushes by her and climbs into the bed of the wagon. Pushing aside items, he cuts a straight path toward the pack and opens it, visibly inserting several letters among the others.

A thunderous scowl on his face, the driver mutters under his breath about being on schedule and _en route_. Nevertheless, he waits until August reseals the bag and gets down, wiping his hands on his trousers. It seems that even he recognizes Marco's son.

Without another word, the man climbs up and sits on the front bench, readying his feet. He flicks the reins with more force than necessary, so that the mule gallops forward. The wagon soon becomes a distant speck of color on the dirt road, taking their letters away with it.

Overhead, wispy clouds float lazily about a bright, azure sky, promising a light day with low winds. The smell of wet grass drifts by, clean and fresh. Despite the morning's rough start, perhaps today will be tranquil. That respite would be most welcome.

Refocusing her attention, Emma catches August staring at her, a slight smirk on his lips. "Was there something you wanted to say?"

His grin widens. "Good morning to you as well, Emma ― it's been a while since we've spoken. And fancy meeting you here, right when the post departs..."

"That's an unspoken question."

"Indeed." He raises a brow. "But one you will not answer."

Shrugging, she crosses her arms over her chest. "I have nothing to else to say about the matter. I simply mailed a letter, like you did. Is that wrong?"

"Only in that you clearly want me to drop the subject as soon as possible." He bites on his bottom lip, scrutinizing her. "Why else would you look so uncomfortable?"

She knows she is being defensive. Nevertheless, it really is none of his business whom she writes to. His attempt to pry for details is getting on her nerves.

"Perhaps my privacy is important to me. Good day to you, sir." Turning on her heel, she strides toward the schoolhouse, a good quarter of a mile away.

August does not let her escape that easily. Following her footsteps, he blurts out, "Emma...Emma, I apologize. I was untoward. Recall that I am rather blunt and idiotic when I'm nervous." He offers her a sheepish smile. "I'm sorry. I ― I've been hoping for a chance to speak with you. I simply was surprised to see you here of all places."

She slows down her pace. "Do we not live in the same town?"

"Yes, but..." He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I haven't been able to attend services the past couple of Sundays, with the overload of work I've had to handle, and long hours confine me to the shop more often than not. But I have been thinking of you. I have missed our conversations, and I've wondered when our paths would cross again. My father's invitation to dinner still stands."

The quiet memory of Marco's warmth and kindness sweeps over her temporary anger and makes it vanish. Half-smiling, she finally looks into August's eyes. "This morning has been stressful," she begins carefully, "so I apologize for taking out my worry on you."

He ducks his head. "Is there anything I can do to help? More paper, perhaps? For your lessons? Anything?"

It is sweet, that he wants to make her feel better. However, her mind is consumed by images of her friends and every possible worry. These thoughts cannot be chased away by mere gestures, for she alone has the power to make them disappear.

Emma gives him a small smile, unsure how to dismiss his concern without upsetting him. Then something he mentioned earlier strikes her as unusual. "Why has your workload been heavier?"

His expression, cheerful and eager, is suddenly shrouded by shadows. Turning away from her, he clenches his jaw and his hands, staring hard at the ground.

"Is something wrong?" She was not expecting this sort of reaction from him. Evasiveness and secrecy are not qualities she could ever possibly associate with August.

He moves as if to leave, then turns around. Motioning that she should follow, he gently ushers her along the street, until they are beyond the hearing of any of the cottage windows.

"Emma, this has to stay between us." Running a hand through his hair, he comes to a stop, grimacing. "My father...has been ill lately. For a man who always rises with the dawn and never stops working, he can barely rise from his bed."

Her jaw drops. "August, how long has Marco been feeling like this?"

Shrugging, he rubs the back of his neck. "At first, I thought he had a cold. He waved away my concerns, said he was fine. I was enough of a fool to listen and not insist he see a doctor right away."

"Does Storybrooke even have a doctor?"

"No. And even if I ask one to come ― which my father has demanded I do _not_ do ― it will take days for him to get here. That letter you saw me send?" He swallows hard. "That was all my doing. I guess I disobeyed my father."

The husky tone of his voice and his bowed shoulders confirm that he is being utterly sincere. The only way she can offer him comfort is by slipping her hand in his and softly squeezing it, as reassurance that he is not alone. She tries to smile as well, but this news is too troubling. "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

He bites down on his lower lip. "I do not want you to guilt you into visiting our home. But my father does speak often of you. You made quite an impression on him. He would be quite cheered to see you if you would like to visit."

"I would be more than happy to visit you ― him." Her cheeks grow warm at the thought of Marco's kindness. "May I ask...why you have told no one else about his illness?"

"Again, my father. He does not want to worry anyone." Rolling his eyes, August shoves his hands down the pockets of his trousers. "Or worse, have a group of elderly matrons crowding around his bedside with prayers and baked goods. I asked him to at least tell Pastor Hopper, but he has been very stubborn. He doesn't like being the center of attention, nor does he want the town council to pounce on this news."

In the recesses of her mind, Emma recalls Mary Margaret saying that Marco and the minister are good friends. However, she can understand the older man's pride and resistance. No one likes to be dependent on another's care, even from family.

But the town council?

"Is it not right to notify the council, that he is temporarily bedridden?"

A glimmer of understanding dawns on her as he answers with a dry chuckle, "You must have never lived in a small town before. Council seats here are for the patriarchs, the elder men who are respected and qualified leaders. There isn't any voting; once you're in, it's pretty much for the rest of your life, unless you quit yourself.

"If word gets out that my father has been sick for weeks, gossip will twist the truth until rumor has it that he's dying. And believe it or not, Storybrooke is not as quiet as it appears. There are some people who like nothing more than to sit in an open council seat. They have the means to persuade their way into acquiring it."

To sway the votes and control the town's progress. He doesn't have to say it for her to grasp how serious this situation is. The tension inside her chest tightens even more. "It seems like you know exactly who is interested in such an opportunity," she whispers.

Tsking, August shakes his head. "There are a few. But it would just take one of them to cause big changes in this town – changes that the current council is firmly against."

It is better for her not to find out whom he is speaking of. Being kept in the dark about such issues is protection in itself. However, her instincts are murmuring to her, telling her that this is information she cannot ignore. Her mind focuses on Killian and the Nolans, her heart beats out a silent prayer, and only then her mouth speaks.

"Can you tell me who, August?" When he does not reply, Emma pleads, "Please, I live here now, and if I'm to stay... I have the right to know."

He is still deep in thought himself, fingers stroking his chin, eyes set on the path straight ahead.

There are more folk in the streets now that the morning hour is later. Wives and mothers crowd about the tiny shops that sell staples like flour, milk, butter, and eggs. Fresh fish comes in every day from the harbor, as most of the men are fisherman by trade. Only some, like David and Marco, survive through a different trade or off the land itself. The few who own livestock or poultry earn additional money on the side by distributing the goods to those shops. Most families rely on the seasons for produce from their own gardens, while other necessities like yeast and wheat and cloth are imported from the nearest major city.

Personally, she dislikes buying anything from the shops on this road. Mrs. Lucas runs a tad more expensive establishment, but her store feels more familiar than a tight room full of strangers, all staring and chattering while buying their wares. Moreover, the elder lady and her granddaughter have shown a great deal of kindness to two outsiders who are searching for less judgment from the world.

She sighs, exasperated. She really must refrain from musing about Killian so often. They may be friends, but keeping him at the forefront of her mind will do her no favors. She will only be all the more desperate to be in his company again, but she cannot do that. She cannot _feel_ that.

He is not what she needs to focus on right now.

"Good morning, Emma, August – how lovely to see you," interrupts Mary Margaret's cheerful voice. Carrying a large wicker basket on one arm, she is beaming at them, looking delighted. "I was just finishing up my purchases for the week. I'm so glad we've crossed paths, because I was meaning to speak to you both."

Emma catches no glimpse of unhappiness in her friend's eyes. If something bad were happening to the Nolans, Mary would be the first to know.

Wouldn't she? Or is the truth formidable enough that David and Ruth would keep her in the dark as well, to spare her from harm and despair?

Perhaps these are all vain suspicions, sprouting from the workings of overactive emotions. Perhaps Emma's concerns are unfounded. However, it is unlikely that Marco's fears and her own are unconnected. Coincidences are a rarity in her life.

"I wanted to let you two know that you absolutely must come to services this Sunday." Mary Margaret gives Emma a meaningful glance. "It's very late notice, but there will be a small party afterwards, with refreshments. August, you'll convince Marco to come, won't you? Everyone he knows will be there. I haven't talked to him in weeks. He must be quite occupied these days."

He coughs into his sleeve, muttering, "Very occupied, yes." Her hopeful face falls when he explains, "Thank you for your concern, but it will be nothing short of miraculous if I can get him to come to this weekend. You know how my father is when he puts his mind to finishing a task."

By biting down on her tongue, Emma stifles a wayward grin. What a smooth liar August is. She should be scandalized but finds herself impressed at how easy it is to believe every word he says. When her friend turns her back to peer at the incoming flow of passersby behind her, he winks at Emma. She nods back, promising his confidence is safe with her. She would do the same for her friends as he has done for his family.

"Well, at least you'll come, won't you?" Mary Margaret presses, tugging on the strings of her bonnet. "David is making excuses as well, though he hasn't worked on Sundays in years. And Killian will not budge if he does not come. I honestly don't understand David's reluctance; he has always participated in these events before. I've talked to the others, and none have declined."

August has the most charming smile on his face. Coupled with his bright, studious gaze and handsome features, he wears the ultimate look of compliance and the eagerness to please. "I will be there – especially when accompanied by the delightful presence of Miss Swan."

She tries to smile back. "I'm Pastor Hopper's new pianist and vocalist, remember? He will first swamp me with songs in church, then with vittles, the proverbial carrot on the stick to keep me enticed to stay put."

He laughs heartily while Mary Margaret gasps, "Emma! That is most unfair." She sounds shocked, but her eyes scintillate. "He means well, truly he does. And this will be a good chance to meet the parents of your students on more familiar ground. It is only an outside lunch – there won't be too many people. And who knows, maybe David and Ruth and Killian will all join us after all!"

Mutely, she affirms her acceptance, head lowered as she partly listens to the young woman's continuing conversation with August. Mary seems excited about this gathering — and with good reason. It is a rare and welcome occurrence in any small town, promoting gossip, business discussions, and romantic pursuits.

This Sunday social is to her advantage, as both a single woman and the town's schoolteacher. However, she is not looking forward to it. If David and his mother are concealing something from Mary Margaret – and given her attitude, that is most likely – nothing bodes well. Certainly, it doesn't for anyone who matters to Emma.

"I hate to interrupt, but I was just about to escort Miss Swan to the schoolhouse. I also have several orders to complete before the day's end." August adjusts the cap on his head until his eyes are fully shaded from the sun. "But it was lovely to speak with you, Miss Blanchard. You have my word that I will come this Sunday, if not my father."

For once, Emma is overly prepared to reach her morning destination. "And I too will be there, I promise."

Murmuring her farewells, Mary Margaret proceeds forward with a smile on her face, but she is not yet out of sight when Emma sees her expression sadden. She has never asked her friend why she lives alone or how she came to be in Storybrooke. The Nolans seem to be her closest connection; no wonder the poor girl is vexed and confused about their behavior.

August whistles lowly under his breath as soon as Mary has turned into the nearest street corner. "I know exactly what my father would say right now. 'It's good for you, my boy, to be around people.' But..."

"You're dreading it, as I am," she finishes, clasping her hands in front of her as they begin to walk in the direction of the schoolhouse. "And for all the wrong reasons."

"Exactly. Is it just me, or is a storm is headed our way this Sunday?" He glares at the cloudless blue sky. "There are only so many questions about my father's absence that I can stomach at a time. I don't like lying to people, even if I have his permission to do so. As the saying goes, lies have short legs."

The white porch steps come into view all too soon. When she reaches for the railing, she feels a soft tapping on her shoulder.

August is holding a wildflower out to her, his cap in his other hand. He must have picked it along the road while she was lost in her own thoughts. Touched, she takes the delicate yellow blossom, thanking him with a small smile.

"Thank you again for your understanding." His eyes search hers. "I hope I was not a bother..."

"Everyone needs a friend." She clears her throat. "I am honored you consider me yours."

His grin is wide and quite catching. "Likewise, Emma. I wish you a good day." He waves to her before he dons his cap, still staring at her before he finally turns around and takes his leave.

She watches him climb up the small road. What is to come next in life's odd twists and turns?

It is only when she is by the blackboard, ready to write today's vocabulary for the children to print out, that she realizes August never answered her question.

* * *

Squeezing out an abundance of sweat from his damp handkerchief, Killian sighs as he inspects the fruits of his labor for the past several weeks. Fortunately, he made it with the planting before the middle of spring. Now his would-be garden has a bloody chance of blooming before the summer comes.

Rows upon rows of upturned soil mark where his moderate supply of vegetables will grow. Right by the main door of his house are two small gardenia shrubs, which were hard to import to Storybrooke; Mr. French made a hell of a fuss, insisting on special shipment fees for his troubles to acquire the tropical plant. Jasmine and sweet pea were two other varieties on Killian's list of flowers to acquire. Their seeds, foreign to this land, also cost dearly because of their popularity — or so the grumpy greengrocer claimed, thinking himself the expert florist.

However, the honeysuckle seeds were the least expensive of Killian's botanical purchases. He has sprinkled them along all the sides of the house and even around the lighthouse itself. With the gardenia and jasmine shrubs, the honeysuckle and sweet pea will be a host of winding vines that promise to fill the air of this hill with their fragrance. He can imagine nothing better intermingling with the scent of the sea.

The rocks interspersed in the surrounding fields have been gathered, thanks to David's intervention, and used to decorate what was once a mixture of dirt and brambles clawing at the fenceposts. French's instructions were fortunately not hard to follow, and it is now Killian's daily task to keep the seeds and shrubs watered and be on the lookout for new weeds (and hungry insects). Otherwise, there is nothing left to be done but wait for growth. And waiting is the hardest task, more exhausting than any work. It can build anticipation and dread or drive a person mad by the time that the waiting is over.

With George's reappearance in town, Killian thought it wise to stay out of sight. Confined to his hill, he has been sure to keep himself occupied, even attempting to repaint the walls of his house on the inside and the outside. However, in his desperation to minimize confrontations with a man he loathes, he has sacrificed encounters with someone he does care for.

He hopes Emma is well and safe. He longs to see her, to show her what he has accomplished, but it is best she does not visit him, nor should he visit her. At all costs, she must be protected from the likes of George Spencer. The cad is a cockroach, greedy and insatiable and persistent, feasting on the lives of others.

But it seems that despite his and David's decision to avoid the foul vermin, he has turned the tables on both of them. Coming up with a community gathering is an undoubtedly clever way to group everyone together so George can not only inspect his opponents but also furtively lash out at them. However, David's attempts to renege on the widespread invitation has tongues wagging already. The residents of Storybrooke leap at the chance to openly socialize. If you refuse to come, it looks like you have something to hide.

Damn George and the whole bloody notion of a _social_. There is no way Killian is going to attend this form of public humiliation.

"Looks like you are working really hard there." David is trudging up the hill, lugging a huge basket. He gestures toward it. "Care for a break? My mother packed you lunch, supper ― breakfast for tomorrow..."

Despite his building irritation and exhaustion, Killian is glad to see his friend. "Ruth is really too kind towards me. Please give her my undying thanks."

David rolls his eyes. "Too kind? Truth be told, I think she wants to adopt you. Just say the word, and you will be our new addition to the Nolan family."

He chuckles, imagining how overcrowded their small house would be if he moved in with them. "Would that make us brothers, then?"

"Hmm, let me think. You would do half of my chores and take up more than half of my mother's undivided attention." He shrugs, half-smiling. "Sounds like a good bargain to me. You already do all of that, so why not make it official? Killian Nolan, née Jones. Brother of David Nolan."

"It has a nice melodic ring to it, I must say ― and benefits, as well. Your mother's cooking is marvelous." Killian cocks his head. Despite the lighthearted comments, David cannot hide the sadness in his gaze. It is horrible, feeling so helpless while battling an enemy you think you cannot defeat. "Perhaps George will back off if he finds out we have joined forces as brothers in arms?"

He sighs, practically shoving the basket into Killian's arms. "The man is not going to give up, Killian." Stalking forward, he turns on his heel and almost yells, "He will stop at nothing until he gets what he wants. And he wants me to play his games for him!"

"Are you going, then? To the social?" He promised himself he would not show his face on Sunday. But George is not going to miss his own party ― and Emma will be there, unprotected. If David keeps hiding from the man, he will seek David out at his leisure. Better to show where they stand now, together, then wait for the coward to make his next move. At least most of the town will be there. That should prevent an actual fight from breaking out if George brings any of his minions with him for _support_.

David's shoulders slump, and he buries his face in his hands, rubbing at it. "I didn't tell her ― Mary Margaret. I haven't told her the truth." His voice breaks. "I don't ― Killian, I don't know how."

"You will go, just to make her happy and unworried," he states in a resigned tone. "David, you must go _for your own sake_. You _must_ be prepared to face George and rebuff his offer in person."

Now his eyes are reddened, as are his cheeks. "I cannot."

"You are going to accept? Mate, blackmail leads to more blackmail ― I've told you this again and again. Refuse now. Fight back. A man unwilling to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets."

_Liam would have said the right words if he were here. He would have been the golden leader who sparked courage and determination in the hearts of men._

But his brother is not here. This is Killian's responsibility now, to look out for his friend. For all of their jests, he does consider David a brother. He and Ruth _are_ family.

"You will fall right into his bloody hands if you agree, and you will never be free of him. He is vindictive, a bloody demon. He will dangle the lives of your lass and Ruth in front of you as a motivator ― for the rest of your life! Surrendering is not the answer."

Closing his eyes, he prays he will not regret this choice. He walked away from a fight with George a long time ago. In comparison, this will be a war, with only one winning side at the end of it.

But he'll be damned if he stands by while the Nolans get hurt by that filthy bastard. He will do whatever it takes to defend them.

"I am going with you, David. This Sunday, I'll be there. I don't know what will happen, I don't know what that arsehole is planning ― but if you are going, you're not going alone. No more hiding and no more running. We will face him, once and for all. Together."


	17. Hail the King

_Her initial lessons have proceeded at a snail's pace. Given that this is her first position, she feels helpless and unsure what to do. Henry and Roland, whom she was told are rambunctious boys, are quiet and attentive, as if they are wary of her._

_She cannot blame them. Her school taught how to teach, not how to deal with children — especially children from unconventional families. Robin Locksley's fiancée is already distrustful. Regina Mills' acerbic tongue and withering glances upon their introduction spell out trouble for Emma. Robin appears to be kind and thoughtful, the opposite of what she expected. But aside from his assurances and his patience in dealing with her inexperience, she is a stranger in an unfamiliar place. Regina is a prime example of first impressions gone wrong. The woman has been prejudiced towards her from the start, for no visible reason._

_Mother Superior did warn her that this post would be a challenge, and it is indeed proving to be so. Emma has no idea how to approach her young charges, to gain even footing here when she's stumbling. The little confidence she had on arrival was short-lived._

_"Miss Swan?"_

_She stops staring blankly at the small blackboard, hanging on the wall of the schooling room. Roland has fallen asleep, toy bear crushed in his embrace. His head is resting on the table, quills and paper deserted right by his ear. It is Henry who is waving a rather thick book at her, wide awake and full of questions._

_"Yes, Henry?" Quietly as she can, Emma sweeps away the slate, pieces of chalk, and paper from under his stepbrother, carrying him to the small settee in the corner. The comfortable spot was meant for reading, not napping, but there is plenty of room for an exception. She slips off Roland's slippers and lays him on the soft cushions, covering his form with her shawl. He is quite the adorable sight, still hugging his bear with all his might._

_Henry's brow is furrowed, as if he is thinking hard about something. "You said that all stories come from somewhere. That includes fairy tales."_

_"Yes. They are the result of people's many ideas."_

_"So why aren't they worth as much as the history stories we read? We learn from both of them." He points at the book. "If these stories are old, they are part of history."_

_She smiles to herself. He's quite a clever boy. "Because some people decided that learning history is more important than learning fairy tales." Being bold is wrong, and it's also not right to influence her young student, but she adds, "The same for people themselves — the world says some are more important than others."_

_Henry frowns at the carpet. "That does not sound right. Why would anyone say that?"_

_The last thing Emma wants to do is upset him. She hastens to say, " One day, Henry, you will understand why. For now, your task is to study your history."_

_He mumbles "Yes, Miss Swan" while he puts the fairytale book back on the bookshelf._

_"Wait." She walks over to the same shelf and pulls the book out again. The title glitters, reminding her of days when she wished with all her heart that fairy tales could come true, that happy endings were possible. He's just a boy; he needs to hold onto his hopes a little longer. "That does not mean you cannot also study fairy tales. Just remember not to believe everything you read, no matter what it is."_

_Handing him the book, Emma watches his expression brighten a little. "I think I understand," he starts slowly. "My mother does not like when I read fairy tales. She says it takes away from my schooling and fills my mind with silly thoughts."_

_Despite a similar opinion about such tales, she finds herself defending them. "I think reading is a great adventure. Fairy tales have their own lessons."_

_His eyes gleam. "Do you enjoy them, Miss Swan?"_

_She smiles sadly, recalling every story with reunited parents and children. "I did once, very much."_

_"What happened?"_

_"I had to grow up. Adults don't believe in fairy tales."_

_Pouting, he declares, "I will never do that, then. I'll refuse to grow up. And I'll make adults see them differently._

_She bites back a laugh. That is obviously impossible to do, but it is so like Henry to be determined, stubborn, and defiant. She has learned this much about him in the weeks she has become acquainted with him._

_Far be it from her to discourage Henry. Open minds like his are the only hope for change that this world has._

_" Would you—" Henry looks down at the book, then at her. "Would you read to me, Miss Swan? A few of them?" His cheeks flush. "My mother used to, when I was little. I miss that."_

_They settle by the couch, where Emma spreads a folded duvet on the floor so they can sit down on it. Excited by the prospect, Henry chooses the favorites he remembers. His head resting on her shoulder, her skirts spread out upon the lush carpeting, they are the most comfortable and relaxed they have been since their first lesson._

_The scene almost feels domestic, as if Emma is not a hired governess but a beloved family friend. While she eagerly narrates the tales, she peeks at Henry and sees him smiling, his gaze fixed on the pages of the book. This is the most focused he has been all day long. It is also heartening to know he is enjoying her reading so much, that he is listening to her with rapt attention. Perhaps she does know what she is doing after all._

_"Henry Mills, why on earth are you sitting on the floor?"_

_Grinning from ear to ear, he leaps to his feet, racing towards the owner of the displeased voice. "Mother! You came home early!"_

_When he flings his arms around her waist, Regina Mills has a pained smile on her face, one arm embracing her son while the other clutches at a leather purse. As always, she is dressed in the latest fashions, from her elaborate hat down to her pointed shoes._

_"Miss Swan?" She eyes the discarded fairytale book with distaste, demanding an explanation._

_Emma rises as gracefully as possible, quickly folding the duvet and hiding it behind her back. "Miss Mills. I rewarded Henry for good behavior and let him read—"_

_"Fairy tales?" She lifts a dark eyebrow up in disbelief, glaring at the book as if it were dripping poison. "In future, my son needs to read realistic stories during his spare time, not this nonsensical fantasy. I will attribute this foolish mistake to your ignorance, Miss Swan, and not to a lack of common sense. You are here to be Henry's teacher, not his entertainer or his nurse. If you cannot fulfill your duties and responsibilities, be sure that I will take swift and effective action. Do I make myself clear?"_

_"Mother," Henry protests. "Miss Swan was only trying to help — it was my fault—"_

_"Do not interrupt me, Henry. While I'm away, your governess is responsible for your education and upbringing, but you will still do as I say. She has no authority — you learned the meaning of that word last year in your vocabulary."_

_"But she's still my teacher!"_

_"And I am your mother and I know what's best for you!"_

_While Emma has been standing here, listening to their argument, the pointed insults do not fly over her head. She has just been called incompetent and a fool — all because she tried to be understanding — and Her Majesty has just threatened to terminate her employment._

_Her blood surges with newfound heat. Robin hired Emma, not Regina. She has no right to speak to Emma like this, especially over a small matter like a children's book. The woman is not married yet to her employer. Roland is not her son, and this is not her house. Her quick tongue belongs right back inside her bitter mouth._

_Emma can fight fire with fire._

_"You have made yourself very clear, Miss Mills," she finally replies. Her voice is as stern and cold as she can make it. "In future, I expect you to clarify your son's reading list and any specific requests for his curriculum. Otherwise, I remind you that I am under Mr. Locksley's employment and I answer to him, not to you. I apologize for the inconvenience."_

_Regina's face darkens with rage. "How dare you—"_

_"You will also find I am not so easily intimidated." Nevertheless, her limbs are shaking as she snatches the poor book from the table and hugs it to her chest. How she hates confrontations... "Thank you for your words of advice. If you'll excuse me, my work here is done for the day. Good evening to you, Ma'am. Good night, Henry."_

_On leaving the room, all Emma can hear are the sounds of Henry sniffling while Regina scolds him in whispers, angry over nothing. What little progress she made today with her pupils has gone up in smoke._

_Clearly, this post would be much simpler if not for this tyrannical woman's involvement._

* * *

With August's warnings ringing in her head, Emma cannot help but find Pastor Hopper's service tedious, testing the limits of her endurance. The past few days have been remarkably trying.

One of the older boys released a rat into the classroom during her Thursday lesson, causing utter havoc. Some of the younger girls were crying after the creature crawled over their feet in its haste to escape; a few children had jumped onto their desks and were refusing to allow others to take refuge there. Their screams and yells and cries filled the small space until the combined noise was an uproar she could not quell. The remaining lesson time was interrupted by worries that the rat would come out of hiding, so she dismissed the class early. She managed to finally corner the rat into a sack and release it outside, but the entire incident was frustrating and embarrassing.

Even though rats are commonplace in these areas, children would still fear them for the vermin they are. She did not appreciate the prank and went straight to the culprit's father to complain. His heated reprimands toward his son resulted in pointed looks of loathing from the boy, all directed toward her. It is not promising news, since he will continue to be in her classroom. Word must have gotten around how she exacted punishment on the prankster, because on Friday morning, she entered a schoolhouse full of quiet resentment and disinterest.

After all the rats she saw in the orphanage, she despises them as much as any of her students do. Being made a fool of — petrified from fear, unable to solve the problem calmly and quickly for the sake of the other children — was not on her agenda for the day.

Her responsibilities are a big headache she wants to ignore. Even now, the sermon about loving one's enemies makes her tempted to kick at the pews in annoyance. And there is still the church social to live through! How she longs to rush to her cottage for some much-needed silence and reflection. She has to find a way to earn the respect of these children. Otherwise, if she cannot maintain discipline and order in her classroom, this will be the end of her post.

However, like she told August and Mary Margaret, Emma must lead the congregation in song and play her part on the piano as dutifully and diligently as possible, whether she feels up to the task or not. Pastor Hopper is relying on her, _and_ he is on the town council. She is not in the position to refuse his request, especially when it's such a small, innocent one. Demoralizing favors are another concern, one she does not want to think about. Despite the necessity to please one's employers, she will never let anyone manipulate her that way.

From her post behind the pianoforte, she can see the increased number of attendees today. So many strangers, all staring. The church is filled with people like a cup to the brim. Careful not to hit the wrong keys, she searches for Killian out of the corner of her eye. To her great relief, he is present, right next to David and Mary Margaret, crushed in the final pews. Ruth is not with them. If August came, he must be well hidden in the crowd.

As the service stumbles toward its end, the air becomes hotter and stuffier. Sealed glass windows prevent drafts, and because there are so many villagers standing against the back wall for lack of empty pews, the main doors are closed. No breeze comes to the rescue. By the time she sings the last verse of the closing hymn, she is sweating and can barely breathe. She needs to exit the small, stifling space — if she can make it to the doors in solid form.

"Now, before you go, I would like to take a moment and invite you all to today's social." Adjusting his spectacles, Pastor Hopper grins widely at his assembled parishioners. "The lovely ladies of our community have prepared refreshments, sponsored by the town council, and there are games for the children. Don't hurry home. Please stay and enjoy yourselves. I, for one, would like to get to know you better — there are so many of you I've yet to speak to, heart to heart."

Emma was about to leave the piano and walk towards her friends, but now it seems rude to do so during his announcement. Doing so would give the impression that she is fleeing from her post — which is an accurate interpretation, with how her stomach is churning inside and how heavy her head feels — and she cannot allow that. Now she is frozen in place between the pulpit and the choir area. She must look quite the fool, standing with her hands clasped behind her back, a silly smile plastered on her face.

Luckily, no one seems to notice her. The pastor is on his way to the main doors when she finally has the courage to escape. Since they were sitting by the entrance, her companions must be outside already, where the luncheon is spread out on covered tables. At the rate the church is clearing of occupants, it will soon be empty.

Bonnet and cloak in hand, she settles onto a deserted pew. She is not the best at socializing, at saying the right thing and not offending anyone. Today's social will be another trial for her, another challenge she has to overcome. _Dear Lord, give me the strength to endure it._

Rising, she dons her cloak and fastens her bonnet securely. They are her battle armor and helmet, but the only shield she has is her composure. She cannot allow it to break.

She cannot show she is afraid.

Slowly, with deep breaths to quiet her thudding heart, she marches forward to the open doors and spares one last glance for the welcoming wooden walls behind her.

Life is not about hiding in the shadows and hoping tribulations will go away; it demands sacrifice, risks, adversity. To accomplish much, one must do much. And to do much, one must feel a great deal more.

She must abandon the safety of this sanctuary, because there are people out there who need her.

Head held up high, Emma enters the awaiting fray.

* * *

The presentation of the food and beverages has been a pleasant surprise. Each dish and basket is neatly laid out on tablecloths, the dying wind ceasing to disturb them.

There are townsfolk everywhere. They are surrounding the tables, crowding into small groups of four or five. Some women sip on the offered punch and whisper to each other, no doubt exchanging the latest gossip.

The air should feel light and cheerful. Instead, it weighs Emma down. Head bowed, she helps herself to several of the refreshments, small sandwiches and home-baked pastries lining her napkin. It is hard for her to make eye contact with the people next to her, let alone start a conversation.

This social does not feel right. She cannot explain why. A familiar urge rises, bidding her to run home.

Home to an empty cottage, with crushing silence and painful reminiscence.

"Why, you must our new schoolteacher, Emma Swan. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Swan." An older man, tall and balding, tips his hat at her. "I am the local magistrate. Perhaps you've heard of me — George Albert Spencer, at your service."

Her stomach tosses when he also kisses her hand. The gesture, while considered polite, seems rather pretentious within this setting. "You know my name, Mr. Spencer," she stammers, not certain what else to say.

His lips form a thin smile. "Miss Swan, I know everything about this town. Making the acquaintance of all its inhabitants is my priority."

"Surely not your only priority?" Her hands are restless and quivering, so she pours herself a glass of punch to distract herself. "When I arrived, I was unaware that Storybrooke had a magistrate to begin with."

He follows suit, sipping slowly on his own serving of the sweet liquid. "Oh, I have duties here. But I also have duties that take me away more often than not. Nevertheless, I am this town's law and order. I keep the peace."

"There is no constable here." She purposely makes it sound more like a statement than a question.

"True, but that is the town council's doing. When I suggested hiring such a man, they refused to impose a tax that would pay his monthly dues. Having my own business in the city and elsewhere, I maintain my post without payment."

A typical boast, if she ever heard one. "That is...very generous of you. Were you born in Storybrooke, that you are so loyal to it?"

He chuckles, the harsh sound grating against her ears. This is not a man she wants to anger. "You are quite the inquisitive lady, Miss Swan." Hard and calculating, his gaze meet hers. "Yes, I was born here. I made a name for myself and have a life beyond this place, but my roots are deep. It seems that I cannot let go of how much those roots mean to me."

"Very commendable." She drowns opposite thoughts in her punch, drinking slowly and thoroughly so she will not have to talk.

After a moment of silence, he asks, "And how about you? What's your story?"

Emma gulps, almost choking on a piece of unmelted ice. "Whatever do you mean?"

"Oh, do come now, I shared some of my history with you. I'm curious why such a lovely young woman as yourself would agree to come to such an isolated town, so far away from all you've known. I, with the council, saw your qualifications. Your recommendations were enough in themselves ― even I've heard of Robin Locksley's repute. You have good connections. You could have had any available post nearer to the city, yet you chose Storybrooke. Quite the mystery, if you ask me."

"Yes, she is mysterious, isn't she?" August cuts in, gently touching her elbow from behind before he stands next to her. He quickly crosses his arms over his chest, the expression on his face mirroring her own unease. "And we all need a bit of mystery in our lives to keep ourselves interesting, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Spencer?"

Her heart feels like it is being squeezed, caught in a snare. It is all she can do to keep herself from vomiting the little food she has eaten.

"Well said, August." Mr. Spencer mockingly toasts him. "Miss Swan here was just asking me why the town has no constable. It happens that I have a solution to that problem."

"Oh? You do realize that any _solution_ of that sort would need to be presented before the council first," he retorts, hardly masking his annoyance.

"And your dear father, of course — speaking of whom, I do hope he is well. Please give him my regards when you see him. However, as for the matter of a constable, I have come fully prepared this time." He waves over someone she cannot see from her vantage point.

"Why _have_ you returned now, Spencer? You usually stay in the fall for what, a few weeks? And then we don't hear from you for months. You're either busy lining your pockets or sweeping out your son's terrible scandals―"

A man strides toward them, dressed for a hunt rather than an informal party. His dark hunting boots shine in the sun, polished and stiff, and his attire looks crisp. When Emma sees his face, she feels faint. He is the trespasser who accosted her at the Nolans' farm. As if recalling their meeting as well, he smirks at her.

"I am proud," Spencer claps the man on the shoulder, "to introduce Mr. Keith Warren as our new constable. He has excellent credentials and comes highly recommended."

August crosses his arms over his chest. "Does he, now? Such interesting timing, to hire him now."

Spencer shakes his head. "You never learn, August. Having Keith watch over Storybrooke will make us all feel more secure and safe. I know I will."

Her mouth is gaping open, but she has no fan behind which she can hide her face, no way to escape Keith's probing, relentless stare.

"This is August, son of Geppetto, town carpenter and head of the council." Keith nods at him. "And Miss Emma Swan, our charming schoolteacher."

"Pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Swan." Keith tries to take her hand in his, but she slips her fingers into the crook of August's elbow, clutching at his arm.

Spencer's eyes narrow, flickering between them. "Have you met before, by chance?"

"Indeed." Keith sounds amused. "We crossed paths on the Nolans' lands. Miss Swan here was quite the fiery defender."

The growing understanding in the magistrate's expression frightens her. Then he smiles, a horrible thing to behold. Like a dog with bared teeth, he seems ready to bite.

"Emma, there you are." This is the first time that she has seen Mary Margaret genuinely worried. The young woman tries to smile brightly and ignore the hungry gazes of Spencer and Keith, but it is a valiant attempt at best. "Some of the parents are eager to meet you—"

"Miss Blanchard, how lovely it is to see you again," Spencer chuckles. "Tell me, has young David finally bought you a ring? Or is he waiting to dig up hidden gold somewhere in his potato patch, so he can afford to actually marry you?"

Her lower lip trembles. "He gave me his mother's ring, Mr. Spencer. It's a family tradition."

"Indeed, like much in the Nolan household."

"What is that supposed to mean?" August cuts in, clenching his jaw.

Spencer tsks, saying, "You're too touchy, August, too easily ruffled. I was merely making friendly conversation with the lady."

"You do not sound friendly, sir," Emma snaps, finding her voice. She has heard enough. Mary Margaret looks like she is about to walk away. "Your words are barbs you throw at each of us, to wound us."

"My dear, I speak with the best of intentions." His voice hardens, increasing in volume. "Being a man of the law, I despise falsehoods. I believe a woman should be aware of all her betrothed's past before she marries him."

The echoing whispers of other people's conversations become muted. Silence takes hold around them as he continues, loudly and vehemently.

Mary Margaret sputters, "You forget your place, Mr. Spencer."

"On the contrary, Miss Blanchard, I have your best interests at heart. See, your fiancé is quite arrogant for someone who's not living up to his responsibilities." He taps his finger against his lip. "Now who does that remind me of? Oh yes...his father."

Only the wind can be heard now.

"Did your beloved ever tell you that right before he was born, the poor man couldn't pay his debts? The mortgage was overdue on the farm, they were on the brink of starvation, his wife was near her time — but Nolan didn't care. He was always ready to make excuses, with a bottle of whiskey in hand. He loved his visits to the local tavern so much that he ignored his pride and came to me for help. Begged me, on his knees, for help. And I, Christian man that I am, gave it."

Eyes widening, Mary Margaret covers her mouth with her hand. David is several paces across from their group, Killian by his side. He is visibly fuming, and his hands are curled into fists.

Killian pulls him back by the shoulder when he tries to move forward. "Spencer," David hisses through gritted teeth. "Stop. This is between you and me. You cannot—"

"Can't I?" he snorts. "I am shocked you haven't told Miss Mary here the truth. Your father was a reckless, spineless drunk who would fight for his shot glass but never for his family. Your farm still belongs to me after all these years because he would waste his profits on liquor again and again instead of paying his rent. And you, _boy_ , are as much a coward as he, hiding in your bed instead of facing me upfront like a man."

* * *

When Emma glances around at the other townsfolk, some are pretending to observe the bottoms of their drinks, while others are already starting to gossip behind their backs. Killian looks furious, limbs taut and strained, barely containing himself. And then at the center of it, David is looking straight at Mary Margaret, pale and silent and sad. Emma only glimpses her friend's bright eyes before she turns and leaves, hastening toward the nearest road. When Emma starts to follow, August keeps her in place.

"Don't," he whispers into her ear. "Spencer is provoking all of us. If you go after her, he will use that against you as well. He already knows you care for the Nolans."

Surely David has some retort, some explanation or rebuff. To her surprise, he swallows hard, glares at the man who just shamed him, and goes after Mary Margaret. With an exaggerated bow, George Spencer wordlessly disappears from the scene, his lackey Keith right behind him. Both intermingle with the crowd.

Slowly, everyone at the social resumes their chatter. Her mind flummoxed, Emma does not know how to act. What happened just now? What is Spencer not saying that poses such an underlying threat to the Nolans? It cannot simply be a matter of rent money. No, this confrontation suggests higher stakes.

In the midst of her confusion, she walks away from August, murmuring her goodbyes as she struggles to maintain coherent thoughts. In that sudden darkness, while her heart is dull and aching for her friends, she realizes that her body has unconsciously been drawn to one person, her light in this town.

His apologetic and concerned expression speaks to her and guides her back to herself.

_She thought she had escaped city politics and the troubles they cause. How wrong she was to imagine they do not exist here._

Every heartbeat clamors in her ears. Forget impressing her students' parents — she must have time to process what she has witnessed today, to understand what this all means. Spencer is a spider spinning a web. Is she prey as well?

"Killian. Could you please take me home?"

He does not protest. Neither of them glances back at the church as he guides her through the streets, saying nothing meanwhile.

But once they reach her cottage, she does not enter inside. She keeps walking, marching up the path on the hill, her sights set on one destination. She needs the cliff on the edge of the sea, a moment of solace in the wilderness around her. There are no worries about impropriety when everything inside her is almost bursting at the seams.

She needs to return to the lighthouse, because it is the one place in this town where she feels free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Kind-hearted Sheila (timeless-love-story on Tumblr) brightened my week by making a beautiful aesthetic for this story, which you can see on [her aesthetics page](http://timeless-love-story.tumblr.com/post/148101122611/the-lighthouse-keeper-and-the-school-teacher). And if this fic had a theme song, it would have to be "Nero" by Two Steps from Hell - such a special instrumental piece!


	18. The First Lesson

_"Just think, Killian — a few more years, and we'll be deckhands instead of cabin boys." Liam begins to scrub the wooden floor faster. He nearly topples over when his knees dig into a crevice and his hands slip from their hold on the heavy brush. Though he catches his balance, he still says nothing about the reddened, raw palms he has been hiding for weeks now._

_Scowling, Killian glares at his own brush with distaste. The bristles are dark, stained from the tobacco the captain likes to chew and then spit on the floor. The captain's cabin is by far the largest on the entire ship — and the filthiest. Even the crew has cleaner bunks and less debris scattered around. Captain Silver is not a tidy man._

_Nor is he a fearful one. Winter months came and they voyaged across the sea, with cooling waters and an icy wind that bit into one's bones. Relentless and merciless, he drove his crew onward like steeds about to collapse from exhaustion. He cares for no one but himself._

_If the old miser were not so sure that he could gain free labor out of the Jones brothers, he probably would have thrown both of them into the churning waves below at the first sign of illness or fatigue._

_Six damn years. Six bloody years since their father abandoned them without so much as a farewell. Killian was but a boy then, a naïve child who could not fathom why the only parent they knew and loved would sell his only sons to save his own skin._

_If he ever comes across that despicable, vile—_

_“Steady there, little brother." Liam is looking at him with concern. One hand has covered Killian's fists, stalling his brush's violent strokes. "Calm yourself."_

_"Younger brother," he spits out, wrenching his hands away. "How can you? How can you just kneel there like a slave and not be angry?"_

_"I am angry. But it does neither of us any good to act out that ire at this moment."_

_His fingers shake. " I can still see him, Liam. After all this time, I remember that terrible morning as if it were yesterday. God help me, but I have not forgiven him."_

_"And yet you cannot let hatred overwhelm you—"_

_"Do not preach to me. That hate helps me. It keeps me strong and alive. All I see when I go to sleep at night is our father's face as I beat it into the dust."_

_Liam is thoughtful, staring into the distance. Then he murmurs, "I do not blame you for that, nor can I judge you. But do not confuse justice with vengeance. We must rise above our misfortune, rise until we have the true strength and power to seek that retribution you so desire."_

* * *

The portrait calls out to her like a reflection in the mirror. Haunted eyes, pained and sorrowful, shelter a glimmer of light that must be joy. No pleasure without pain, no joy without remorse. Nevertheless, Killian has taken bright colors and created a vision of her true self, reaching out from hardship and lost hope toward a brilliant future. The sunshine exuding from his paints makes the white clouds outside seem dull and gray in comparison.

His work is mesmerizing.

"Have you ever considered selling your artwork?" When he does not reply, Emma adds, "In the city — any city."

She turns to see him putting a kettle on the cook stove. Then he rakes at the chopped wood inside, stirring dying embers to back to life.

"I have done that — in the past," he finally says, with his back still facing her. "And that is in the past. There is no future for me as an artist."

"What makes you say such a thing? With your skills, you have a chance at success."

He glances at her. "Once, perhaps." His eyes dart toward his missing hand. "Not anymore."

And yet, she has a hard time believing that this is the true reason for his reluctance. However, it is not her place to question his motives. After all, she is here to learn, not to teach.

He leaves for a short while, presumably to his studio, and then re-emerges with an armload of stiff paper and charcoal sticks. Laying them out on the table, he arranges everything neatly, allowing no disarray. An image of the church social comes to mind, clashing with the order within this room.

"Are we going to discuss what happened today?"

He chuckles dryly, still not looking at her. “What happened to David? Or what happened to you?”

Her limbs tense at his tone, guarded and serious. “Which are you willing to talk about?”

“Emma.” His eyes catch hers, holding her in place. “You are astute. You know it would be bad form to speak of David's predicament while not in his presence. I may be many things, but I am no gossip.”

“I do not want to gossip ― I want to help, in any way I can.”

“I understand, lass, but in this instance...you cannot.” His jaw tightens. “Please. Do not try. I say this out of concern for you.”

His fist is crumpling the uppermost paper. She can see his knuckles, just as white from the strain. Reaching out, she slowly covers his hand with hers. It is warm. His heartbeat whispers from the veins on the surface, pulsing and restless.

“Telling me what to do?” she murmurs, caressing his fingers in hopes of releasing them from their fierce grip.

The gaze that answers is perturbed, as if he barely knows how to reply. “Asking. I am asking you,” he rasps, biting down on his lip.

She can respect that request for confidence, that bid for trust. When her hand pulls away, he takes it back, enfolding their palms. “I am not asking you to forget this day or those moments, love,” he explains. “I am asking that you let David state his reasons in his own good time, in person. He has been through a great deal since he was young. He deserves understanding, at least. He deserves to be able to tell his side of the story when he feels that it is right to do so.”

The memory of Spencer's grin unnerves her and chills her bones. “And your story as well?” She peers at the fireplace, filled with flames. “Are you asking for yourself, too?”

His lips twitch, so slightly that she almost misses it. “I will tell you anything you wish to know of me.”

And yet he knows quite well that she would never dare to ask every question she has about him on her mind ― nor would he give her clear answers each time. With a half-smile, she nods. “Very well. Will you tell me why you do not believe in your trade anymore?” Waving at the walls around them, she adds, “How does an artist become a lighthouse keeper?”

“Hmm. You give as good as you get, my dear.” He fingers a charcoal stick absently, lost in his thoughts. “It is not just that...I have one hand instead of two.” He smiles up at her. The gesture is bitter and pained, a mixture of hurt that she has not seen on his face before. How much feeling does he hide every day, even from himself? “It is that whenever I look at this fact, I am reminded of how much I have truly lost ― and it is my fault. I have brought down this tragedy I am living on myself, through my own actions.”

“You blame only yourself?”

“No. I blame many. But I blame myself most of all.” He is drawing now. The shape of the object is not defined yet, but it is being created. “Our beloved pastor is quick to point out the power of forgiveness, the relief it brings. But he never explains how to forget, how to stop living side by side with your mistakes, seeing how they have destroyed the things you loved. How they have ultimately destroyed you.”

A twinge of sorrow runs through her being. After the passing years, one would think that she would have forgotten Neal's betrayal. Unfortunately, that is not the truth. The truth is that she relives her errors by chastising herself over how she could have chosen differently. She could have chosen not to love him so deeply. She could have chosen to keep her heart safe, to not be tempted by the promise of love. Since she was a child, every part of her quietly bled from the intense desire to find mutual love. When she found hope for it, she leapt too quickly, not thinking about the consequences. As a result, she fell to her knees and was wounded. Even now, she carries the scars, thin and easily broken.

Has she forgiven Neal? Can she lie to herself that she has forgotten any of her past?

There, it stirs ― her guilt. The choices she made are not forgiven. Perhaps they never will be. She cannot free herself.

“I used to be a better man, Emma. I used to believe in love, to live for love―”

“You no longer believe in love?” The words escape her mouth, and she is helpless to stop them.

Hand stilling, he bows his head. Then he whispers, “No. No, I still do. To deny that would be unthinkable.”

“You distrust it. You distrust yourself.” Her sight begins to blur. “But you don't know who you are without it.”

“Aye. Without love, I cannot be my true self.”

To the outside ear, they are almost speaking in riddles. To her, their voices are simple. He has leaned forward, forearms covering the image he has sketched, his face lowering to hers. His breath, smelling of mint and parsley, is a sweet wind over her skin. She feels their connection more strongly than ever, so much so that she begins to count each time she exhales, shaking hard.

* * *

The charcoal stick he has been using rolls across the table. He seems about to cup her cheek. Then she sees his fingertips. “Soot.” She points at them when he looks at her in bewilderment. “Your hand is covered in soot.”

“Aye ― ashes, really.” After glancing at it, he continues to stare at her.

Touching only encourages more mistakes. Instead, she bends down to eye his partially concealed drawing better. When he notices her interest, he moves his arm away.

Judging by the profile, it is a man.

“My brother, Liam.” Killian smiles sadly at her. "I do not have many portraits of him."

The resemblance between them is visible. "Was he a restless soul, as well?"

Killian chuckles. "Restless?"

Her cheeks are warm, but she presses on. "Whenever perchance we meet, you seem to be always occupied with some task, toiling hard. I only wondered..."

"Aye, Liam was the same — restless, as you put it." His gaze softens. Then the kettle whistles, an urgent signal coaxing him back to the stove. He swiftly removes it from the source of heat.

"He was always occupied, being a ship's captain. It was all he had ever dreamed of. It was difficult to pull him away from the thing he loved most, though it cost him sleep and privacy."

"Surely he loved you most," she interrupts. He turns toward her. "From what you have described of him so far, he does sound like a dedicated captain. However, you would not have drawn him with such care," she gently traces over the careful lines with a hovering fingertip, "if he had not loved you."

Bowing his head, he clears his throat. "I can only assume. I confess that at times, the brash young lad I was doubted his older brother's affection because I was a burden he did not need to carry. He chose to look after me, a decision that resulted in the many sacrifices he made on my behalf. But if you are asking, Emma, if I loved my brother," he says gruffly, " then aye, I did. I can count — on the one bloody hand I have left — how many people I've loved throughout my life. Only almighty God can tell me, someday, if they deserved it."

_And she does not even need one finger to count hers._

Liam is smiling at her, his eyes kind and just a bit mischievous — just like the set of piercing eyes in front of her, watching for her reaction. They must have been quite the pair together, these dashing Jones brothers. Hearing Killian reminisce about him deepens her own loneliness.

"I wish I could have met him," she finally answers.

Biting down on his lower lip, he takes the drawing and, after staring at it for a long moment, turns it upside down. "Ah, well," he murmurs. "It does no good to dwell on the dead."

When he pulls out the chair for her, offering her a seat, she knows the conversation about Liam Jones has ended. He sits down at the same time as she, settling next to her so they are side by side. He now has a clear view of the paper before her.

“Show me how you hold your writing implement.” His voice is stern, serious ― but his smile is encouraging.

She first pushes up her sleeves to the elbows, then takes a charcoal stick, holding up her hand to demonstrate the position of her fingers.

“Excellent, lass.” His smile widens. “Now, show me how to draw a circle.”

Her circle looks more like an uneven apple, but it meets his approval nonetheless.

“Shade it for me — make it a sphere.”

Her teeth toy with her bottom lip as she thinks about where the figurative light is coming from, shining on her circle. A few minutes pass. By the time she is smoothing out the charcoal's strokes with her thumb, smudges becoming solid shading, the curved line has transformed into a sphere.

He tsks. “My dear Swan, you are more knowledgeable than you have led me to believe. I see that you are more intermediate than beginner. Let us progress, then. Can you...” His tongue glides over his teeth as he ponders. She tries not to focus on his lips meanwhile. “Can you draw a vase for me? Grecian urn, whatever you please.”

Of course, a memory enters her mind and a rather embarrassing one at that. The first time she entered Graham's home, she accidentally collided with a misplaced vase. It was displaying some dying blooms, but Graham assured her that neither the broken porcelain vase nor the flowers had any real value. However, his mother had silently disagreed, with that mysterious smile of hers. It so happened that the vase was one of his mother's wedding gifts, apparently from her own mother. Emma surmised at the time that the object was in itself considered precious, but the gift giver was not.

Painstakingly, she tries to recreate that unfortunate vase, line by line. Its contours are wobbly and uncertain, but the general shape is correct. Her shading is not so well done this time.

“Alright, so it seems we must address more complex scenery than my house's glaring lack of material objects to draw. Can you...?” He reconsiders what he was about to ask. “No, that might be too complicated just yet.”

“What is it?” Sketching inanimate objects can get quite boring. While the nuns had approved of life drawing, they did not like any of the girls in class to model as human figures for art's sake. They wanted to avoid vanity and inflated self-worth at all costs, given some of their students' origins.

His throat bobs as he swallows, wetting his tongue. “Would you try sketching your left hand?”

It is not a difficult request ― though half an hour later, she regrets being so confident about her skills when she started. She has not observed human anatomy in a long while, not with the precise analysis needed for drawing. Her shading goes horribly wrong, and her fingers look like sausages attached to a fleshy rectangle. The entire result is humiliating and frustrating.

“There we are,” he quietly whispers, then clears his throat. “Hmm, you're looking at this the wrong way.”

“I beg your pardon?” she sputters, a sudden pang in her chest. She should not feel insulted by her own efforts, not when she knows that mistakes are an opportunity for growth and change. _I am here to learn_ , she tells herself again. _No need to feel hurt over what I see as inadequacy. I am out of practice, I've admitted that._

He cocks his head, eyes flickering between her face and her hand. “You are approaching this the wrong way. You're trying to draw the entire hand at once, instead of seeing individual elements creating a whole. Each part of the human body works together to form one uniform piece. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts.”

“Aristotle. How appropriate, Master Jones,” she teases, at least pleased that she recognizes the quote. When he blushes and ducks his head, she shrugs in her defense. “I am appreciating your overview of my work. Please, do continue.”

He clears his throat again, rubbing at his neck. “Instead of jumping everywhere at once with your charcoal, you need to try and outline the general shape of your hand, then detail it ― slowly. Above all, do not hurry. Some masterpieces took years to finish.”

“This is no masterpiece, I can assure,” she mutters under her breath, sighing. The foreshortening for the fingers is giving her trouble again, as it always has. Moreover, keeping her left hand in the same stance while drawing with the right is becoming nearly impossible. Her fingers keep twitching.

He immediately notices her decreasing concentration. He would certainly make a fine school teacher, Emma muses with a wry half-smile. “You are...distracted, love. Would it help if I...if I proposed my hand as a model?”

She nods, not sure how comfortable he is with his own offer. Still, he extends his arm, holding his hand steady in the same pose as hers was. Sadly, it does not help. She cannot visualize his hand on her sheet paper.

“Here, let me show you.” He sounds annoyed. He will most likely show her an example of a good drawing, then expect her to learn from his demonstration. After all, she is an adult, not a child. She must learn independently.

Killian takes her by surprise by rising up and surrounding her from behind. “Apologies, lass.” His breath is by her cheek once more, and his hand gently covers hers. “Am I being too forward? I hoped to actually teach you, instead of merely showing you, the correct steps. Tell me if you prefer the latter.”

Her eyes close of their own accord. In this moment, there is the heat that comes from close bodies, the quiet rush of beating blood under the skin. All her sense are aware of him and his movements, from the shuffle of his feet to the turn of his head.

She trusts he would never hurt her. She trusts his motives, she _does_. It is herself she cannot trust. She cannot predict what her feverish being would do, so near his, given their attraction. That is what is bothering her, is it not? The fact that there is mutual longing here, poorly hidden but clearly felt?

Or perhaps it is how close he is to her, his arms brushing hers as he adjusts her hand and prepares to guide it across the paper.

“No, it is fine.” She says it again when he tsks disbelievingly. Her temper flares up a little at the unspoken challenge there. “Go on, then. Show me how it's done.”

* * *

He starts by turning, searching her expression. Their faces are mere inches apart. Emma can barely stare back at him, but she does not seem flustered. She looks confused, at a loss. Her hand is trembling under his.

Ignoring how his own heart is thrumming, he focuses on angling her hand the correct way. Slowly, they create new strokes together, one breath at a time.

_Milah loved drawing. She too had natural talent, a yearning to create and express. It's why she talked to him in that pub. He was sitting and sketching patrons while sipping on his glass of rum. She was a lone woman at the bar, dressed in plain clothing, asking for a drink. When a boor of a fellow jostled her and then bedeviled her, Killian intervened. The bastard went home with a broken nose, but Milah stayed to thank him for his help. Introductions were made, and before he knew it, they were discussing art, traveling, society. He showed her his portfolio. She shared her dreams. They remained in the pub well past midnight, unable to end the conversation. He hailed a carriage for her, thrilled by her promise to meet him again the next evening._

_And from then on, he felt he had reached heaven — until their romance became the road to hell._

His hand suddenly withdraws from Emma's as if stung. She peers at him in shock.

"What's wrong?" Her attention transfers to the drawing. It is quite good, though it is a simple line drawing with no shading. "Did I do something wrong?"

His throat tightens. Images of Milah, drawing and laughing in his poor studio of a flat, swamp his mind like the deadliest of bogs. He pays dearly every time he picks up his charcoal or paintbrush, all memories of his love for art focused on her — the greatest love of his life, who understood what it meant to be broken by one's survival. There will never be another like her.

With Milah's loss present, the changed atmosphere of the room is suffocating. When she died, he lost all hope for a happy future. It led to heavy drinking and a complete disregard for his own existence. There is no living without her.

"No, it is fine. Perhaps that is enough for a first lesson," he grumbles, eager to be alone. He notices the look of hurt on Emma's face before it disappears in the midst of calm composure.

"Very well." Rising, she takes a step back to assess her work. Her thin smile is not a satisfied one. "Is there a specific day you would like me to come back? We agreed I would help you—"

"I will let you know," he snaps, frustration building on hearing that annoying word. It was not enough that Milah was taken from him, but also his livelihood. "I am a busy man."

_Bloody hell, he needs some damn rum._

Unfortunately for him, Emma is a smart lass. She senses something in his demeanor has altered, but judging by her resigned sigh, she is not going to fight for answers now. Deftly donning her bonnet, she extricates herself from the confined space of his suppressed anger and heads toward the door.

A sliver of the man he once was shakes him out of this mire of selfishness he has fallen into. How can he treat Emma so? She has been nothing but good to him. He is being a bloody arse—

"Wait, love." He scoops the paper and charcoal into his arms, reaching her side in moments. "Take these, so you can practice on your own when you have time." Her inquisitive eyes compel him to say more. "I _do_ hope to see you again soon. You will come back, won't you?"

He hears the pleading in his roughened voice, the shame and pain leaking through his poor choice of words. After all these years, he is still a self-absorbed bastard who has no idea how to conquer his worst enemy — himself. And he's still an idiot when it comes to his monstrous pride and apologizing for it.

To his surprise, her gaze is soft and filled with a light that dazzles him. She always exceeds his expectations — which only proves, even more, how different she is from everyone else. With the exception of the Nolans, no one has failed to see the worst in him. The world has no place for a destructive, maimed man like him.

"You know I will." Her smile, gentle and compassionate, warms him. He is grateful she has never pitied him. "We made a deal. And I never break a promise."

"Nor do I." He extends the supplies to her. "I may not believe in honor anymore, but I do live by a code, and I do consider myself a man of my word." His tone gains the strength of conviction. "I look forward to our next lesson."

She hugs the paper to her chest, careful not to drop the charcoal sticks. "As do I. Thank you."

Well, that ended amicably. He is ready to close the door and reenter his solace, but what does he see? Emma has turned around and is striding toward him. She stops short in front of him, and like a bewildered fool, he can only stand there while she quickly kisses his cheek.

In a voice full of emotion, she says, "There is no way to express — and you will never know — just how much this all means to me. Please don't forget that, Killian."

Nodding dumbly, he struggles with the onslaught of heat in his skin as bittersweet desire reminds him of every detail in this minute of connection.

Like a freed bird, his rage flies away, chased off by the beauty of the soul before him.

All he sees is her receding back as she leaves. Meanwhile, a striking, unprecedented realization occurs, and bitterness, his constant companion, is strangely absent.

Emma is not the one in need of lessons. It is he who still has much to learn.

* * *

_Her first day at school is terrifying. It is not just the new surroundings or the presence of so many girls her own age, all staring at her as she is welcomed by Mother Superior to the classroom. It is not merely the cold stool under her bottom, reminding her of where she is, or the incessant scraping of chalk across the large blackboards on every wall._

_She worries that despite her great hopes to call this place her home, some catastrophe will ensure that she will once again be homeless and alone._

_That fear of always being alone disturbs her, every night and every day._

_It does not help that she is ignorant about initiating a friendship, that allowing others to approach her is nearly impossible. She is unapproachable because she cannot trust. She cannot stop doubting herself and others, not for one minute._

_Mother Superior is not one of the teachers, unfortunately. The unfamiliarity Emma feels only grows as the day goes on. Several nuns, each in charge of different subjects at different grade levels, examine her knowledge of mathematics, geography, English, Latin. She knows nothing about art or music — none of the families who adopted her owned any books — and she is deeply embarrassed when the nuns unanimously agree to have her sit with the youngest students for now, since her skills are that of a beginner. If she excels, she will advance._

_Perhaps she would not be so dismayed if her new teachers told her this in a friendly manner. To her ears, it sounds like judgment._

_She is not clever enough to be in this school._

_Trying not to glance around her for the hundredth time, Emma keeps her eyes fixed on her slate, concentrating hard on her sums. She has only seen numbers in the market, when sellers advertised their wares with loud, obnoxious voices. She is fortunate that the orphanage taught her how to read and write, however poorly. Otherwise, she certainly would have been sent out the door the moment she arrived here._

_Her teacher, a kindly but strict nun named Sister Nova, is busy writing new figures on the blackboard. Splendid, more problems to solve, when she can barely remember how to print her own name._

_"When you add numbers greater than nine, remember to add in columns." The girl across from her is about eleven or twelve years old, with hair the color of wheat and sparkling blue eyes. Her braids toss and turn as she scribbles on her slate. "It helps if you look at one column at a time — and always from right to left."_

_Sister Nova tried to show Emma the sums of numbers using pebbles, and it made sense. However, when she is now looking at the same numbers in a written form, it is a daunting task._

_"Thank you," she replies slowly, all too aware of her flaming cheeks. Because she's unsure what else to say — except to admit how stupid she is — she adds, "I'm Emma Swan."_

_"Yes, Mother Superior said that you're the new student. It's lovely to meet you."_

_If she didn't feel foolish before, she does now. All the girls are likely wondering where she came from and what her story is. It is hard to tell if the school is merely for indigents or for the privileged as well._

_When Emma does not answer, the girl continues. "The teachers usually address us by our surnames, to keep distance between them and us — 'to maintain respect.' But then the others do it as well, and it sounds so cold." She bites down on her lip, peering up at her. "You may call me by my Christian name, if you like."_

_"I'm not sure—"_

_"My father was a tinker. He sold cups and pots and all kinds of things from his cart to people passing by on the roads or in the city markets. We traveled from town to town, ever since I was little. Then one winter, he died. It was snowing, but we did not have enough money to buy wood for a bonfire. We had to sleep outside in the middle of a storm. When I woke up, he did not."_

_Emma cannot decide what is worse — never knowing one's parents, or knowing them and then losing them. She also does not understand why this stranger is sharing such details about her personal history._

_The girl pauses, sniffling. Emma thinks she's going to cry, but then she smiles and says, "He named me, you know — Tinker Belle. Belle, which is French for 'beautiful.' He always told me I looked like my mother and I was the brightest beauty he had in his entire collection of tinkering pots and pans. My entire name was too long, so he called me Tink — and even after his passing, the name stuck: Tink Fidelian. When I first came here, the sisters wanted to give me a name from the Bible, but I wouldn't let them. They meant well, but this will always be my name."_

_Tink Fidelian is musical, light on the tongue and easy to remember. During her monologue, her voice has not wavered once from its merry, whimsical tone. She has suffered, and her loss is clear. Nevertheless, she does not seem to have lost faith in life._

_Despite herself, Emma is impressed by the girl's optimism and apparent endurance. "It's lovely to meet you, Tink. You may call me Emma."_

_Tink looks delighted, chattering on about the subjects they study, their teachers, and everything else under the sun. The conversation is a welcome distraction, helping Emma to relax._

_Then Sister Nova returns to caution them about working in silence. Although they obey, eyes on their slates again, Tink winks at Emma behind the sister's turned back, grinning widely._

_Perhaps she needs a friend here as much as Emma does._


	19. Stormy Weather

" _Since I am soon to be the lady of the house," Regina says proudly, smiling at Robin on her right, "I have been speaking frequently to the household staff."_

_Emma sighs inwardly, stabbing at the baked fish on her plate. Her stomach is growling, but listening to Regina Mills dispels her appetite. The woman likes nothing better than to harp on about other people and discuss meaningless news._

_Henry and Roland are happily occupied further down the table, playing with their food. They are pretending they are soldiers devouring their rations, wide smiles on their faces as they chatter about their next adventure in the gardens. On the other hand, their father is listening, half to his soon-to-be bride and half to his children, and seeming not to notice the boys' lack of manners at the table. He must be enjoying their antics, if his amused smile and interested glances are anything to judge by._

" _I was especially intrigued to hear the latest gossip. It's surprising how quickly the servants circulate stories."_

_Robin nods, more focused on his plate than her face. Regina's grin twists, tongue caught between her teeth as if trying to bite back words but no longer able to._

" _One tale caught my attention above all the others," she starts, putting down her utensils. "It seems that our Miss Swan and a certain stable boy have been spending time together."_

_All breath leaves Emma's chest._

" _Quite a lot of time, if Mrs. Potts is to be believed. Every free moment, they have been engaged in conversation, dallying amid the grounds. They have even been seen returning with horses, saddled for riding. A secret romance, right under our noses! Isn't it wonderful, dear?"_

_His jaw has become quite still. He swallows, then opens his mouth. "Regina, I appreciate your concern." She starts to smile, but he continues, "However, I would prefer we discuss these matters in private ― not at the dinner table for all to hear." He pointedly nods at the children, oblivious to the adults' conversation._

_Then he glances at Emma, looking displeased as he returns to his supper. Her stomach sours inside, churning together malignant thoughts. She had always assumed that a mere friendship with Neal would never bear serious consequences. From the expression on her employer's face, this will be far from the case. Though Robin seems to be a good man, he does have a temper — and he certainly does not approve of his governess befriending a servant any more than his fiancée does._

* * *

The scratch of the chalk against the blackboard irritates her. The sound, dry and thin as paper, stiffens her bones and make her skin crawl. On an ordinary day, perhaps it would not unnerve her so.

However, today seems to be the proverbial portent of doom, ready to fall right down on her head.

First, she awoke too early in the morning, to the cacophony of something breaking just outside her door. The object in question happened to be her milk jug, waiting for its daily fill as per agreement with the one villager who owns a milk cow. She paid a considerable percentage of her monthly stipend to acquire that right. It saved her early morning walks she could do without.

Her jug has met its demise. Sadly, she cannot currently afford to purchase another, which means that the rest of her milk money for this month is gone for nothing. Wood for her precious cooking stove, a novelty in this town, and various other necessities have almost devoured her spending allowance for this month. The weather, so promising at first, turned ghastly and caused a chill that only the heat of fire could dispel.

Now, in the schoolhouse that has no stove and affords little respite from the sudden cold (thanks to its stark wooden walls), her students are being obnoxious.

What a marvelous start to her day.

"The ancient Romans ruled most of the world we know for hundreds of years. One reason for this was that they were clever. They used mathematics and science to build roads and bridges and aqueducts that still exist today."

She turns to see if the children are listening. Some giggle behind their hands and sit up straight, secretive smiles on their faces. The older boys lounge in their chairs, looking bored.

Her hand trembles as she finishes writing arithmetic problems on the board. Three weeks, and most of her students still do not understand multiplication. Addition and subtraction were simple enough, but multiplying numbers has been hard to interpret a number of ways to explain to them. She can only imagine what a rebellion fractions will cause — if they ever reach that goal.

"That is why," she continues, her voice shaky, "it is important you learn your tables well. Math is of great value in the world. It helps you be strong in all areas of your life."

When one of the main troublemakers, a fisherman's son named Peter, smirks, she realizes too late that she just made a mistake.

"Miss Swan?" he asks in a deceptively innocent tone. "Can multiplication really help make my life better?"

Clutching at the piece of chalk, she gazes at the younger children's expressions. They are expecting her answer. "Well, Peter, I suppose it can be useful, yes. However, it cannot be a magic wand that waves over your life and makes everything wonderful. You have to work hard, every day, to gain the skills you need."

He seems to ponder her words for a moment. "So will math make the fish easier to catch?"

She winces. "Not exactly..."

"Will it make the fish easier to sell?"

"No, but if—"

"Will my father be able to work less hours? Will my mother have to fix less nets?"

" _Fewer_ nets—

" See, that's what I mean." Turning around, he gestures at the rest of the children. "She's telling you that all this _learning_ and _education_ can help us. But at the end of the day, I still have chores to do at home, and work won't get any easier for anyone. It won't make work go away—"

"Peter, sit down at once!"

"But you all know that, don't you? You're here because your ma and your pa want you to be here, so we can be smarter folk. Right? Well, says I, if this education can't help me right now with what I need, why bother?"

"Because it adds to the person you and helps you become more, helps you grow and change," she defends, feeling helpless. How did Mother Superior manage to sound so persuasive?

Peter's eyes flash. "But I don't want to be more! Miss Swan, you're just doing your job. We all have jobs. My job is to help reel in the catch, separate the fish, clean the nets, tidy up the boat. And that's all I ever will be. My great-grandfather was a fisherman, my grandpa was one... This is my family. This is what we are. The sea is our lives. And no books or sums or tables will change that. You may be from the city, but this is Storybrooke. We don't need growth, nor do we want it."

The genuine anger in his face surprises her. He truly hates being here and thinks school is a waste of time. She can only gape in disbelief as he grabs his cap from the table he was seated by and strides toward the door.

One of his close companions, Felix, calls out to him, "But you'll get in trouble."

"I really don't care. I can take a beating — but no more of this. No more lessons." With a sneer, he tips his hat at Emma, closing the door behind him after he leaves.

With an uproar of chatter, her classroom and her dreams of success darken.

She is failing.

She cannot make a connection between her students and the benefits of education. Do they all believe as Peter does, that this means nothing?

A series of knocks makes her heart jump. Then she calms herself, hesitant to hope. Perhaps he has returned.

Sadly, the person who enters the chaos inside is the last one she wants to see.

"Greetings, Miss Swan." George's odious voice echoes across the room. "I thought I would stop by and pay you a visit today. Well, _we_."

As if on cue, Keith comes up from behind him, grinning maniacally.

Her head aches in turn.

_What a fine kettle of fish she has gotten into._

* * *

It is all she can do to keep from wringing her hands together like a damsel in distress in a Gothic romance. Two greedy pairs of eyes, narrowed and small, scour the classroom as if searching for dust.

As long as George says nothing, she can handle this. It is when he speaks that she finds herself unable to think of how to reply.

However, while the silence continues, both men inspecting everything in sight, she starts to lose her resolve. Even the children look nervous, squirming in their chairs. Though the majority may not like school, perhaps some of them do like it. Perhaps they know that the magistrate has the power to make her post disappear if he so wishes.

"You run a very clean classroom, Miss Swan. Very neat and tidy, indeed." If he had a riding crop, he would be swinging it with the way he is parading about. "You are to be commended for that."

She breathes out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Mr. Spencer."

"No need for gratitude, no need." He then turns and faces the children. "Now let us see if you are keeping order as well. You there, what is your name? Stand up, lad."

The small boy can barely look at George when he whispers, "My name is Franklin, sir."

"Franklin. Strong name." He rubs at his chin. "Tell me, Franklin — do you like going to school?"

Franklin glances at her. His frightened eyes show he doesn't know what to say. She tries to encourage him with a smile.

"It's hard to get up early in the morning. But if I wasn't here, then I'd be at home, doing chores."

"That's not what I asked. I asked if you enjoy learning what Miss Swan here, your schoolmistress, has to teach you."

The boy cowers under the man's stern gaze. "Learning is hard, sir. I'm afraid I don't understand it all that much."

"Understand what?"

He timidly points at the board. "Numbers. Letters and sums and words and reading. They confuse me, sir."

Peter's bold words come back to her, filling her anew with dread.

"Confuse you? You are confused?" He turns his attention to another student, this time an older girl named Sara. "You — do you agree with Franklin here? Are you confused by Miss Swan's teaching?"

Franklin protests, "That's not what I—"

"Quiet, boy." He presses his question again. Sara only bows her head in response.

Facing George is as difficult as it was during their introduction. The sight of him scrutinizing her, with cool anger brewing under the surface, frightens her. He embarrassed poor David in public. She has no idea what he is capable of doing to her.

"Miss Swan," he begins. "You have employed here for how long?"

"Nearly four months."

"And in those four months, you have made little progress."

"How could you possibly know that? We have studied—"

"Countless subjects, I know — the usual. But these children frankly look miserable and upset. They do not look like happy children, excited and eager to be at school. This is an opportunity for them beyond their wildest imaginings. It will create future opportunities beyond this town. Did you tell them that?"

Keith is leaning against the door, arms crossed over his chest. He clearly is not about to let her leave.

"Did you tell them," he emphasizes, "that their parents are paying you to do this? That if they learn nothing, it is caused by one of two reasons: either they are stupid — a sad state of affairs that cannot be fixed — or you are a poor teacher. The latter, on the other hand, is something I can remedy all too quickly."

_Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned_ , Shakespeare said. Well, this woman is damn outraged. "Just because they need more time to understand does not mean they cannot ever." Her fingers are digging into her shawl, clawing at it as she struggles to stay still. "And for that matter, ignorance is not a disease to be cured. My job is to offer them knowledge and the tools to acquire it."

"But they have not been properly motivated, Miss Swan. Why, I just met a young man on my coming here, who said he had forsaken school altogether. Is this how you encourage your students? Is this how you motivate them?"

"You assume too much," she argues. "Four months is not nearly enough time to learn anything well."

His answering expression is terrible to behold. Before she can stop him, he grabs a slate from the nearest child, a little girl with braids, and stares at it. Then he holds it up for all to see.

Keith bursts into laughter, inspiring a series of giggles and snickers from some of the children. The girl blushes and looks away.

The letters are, in a word, atrocious. But Emma sees more — she sees potential. She sees effort. She is not prepared to give up now. She will find a way to get through to these children, each and every one. Peter is not the end, but the beginning.

"Every child in this classroom has the chance to make mistakes, because it is through mistakes that we learn to do things better." She points her chin at him. "What is it you want, Mr. Spencer? Did you come here to discredit me and my skills? To crush these children's hopes? Or...are you simply a sadistic man with nothing better to do than prey upon the town teacher and a room of innocent children?"

His cheeks become a shade of purple within seconds. "Don't be smart with me, Miss Swan. I am still the town magistrate, and critiquing your abilities is certainly within my authority. Kindly remember who provides your salary."

"The town council does — and if I _also_ remember correctly," she snaps back, icy venom in her tone, "it is their unanimous vote, and their vote alone, that can dismiss me from this post. I have a year-long contract, sir. The probation period was over after the first three months, which has passed. Evidently, the council believes I am doing something right."

She stands taller and straighter, determined to fight her way to that end — where this village's children see farther than the limited horizon they currently have. "This inspection, whatever its true purpose, is over. Today, you have disrupted my class, shamed my students, and insulted me thoroughly. Next time, please do bring the town council with you before you pass judgment on me and my work here."

Fearless, she marches up to the door and despite Keith's interference, yanks it open. He almost falls down from the force of the door smacking his behind. "Kindly show yourself, and your constable, the way out. Good day, sir."

* * *

_She should not be afraid. But she is._

_Friendship with Neal was a risk, knowing how much the Lord of Locksley despises relationships among his servants. Perhaps he is right to discourage them. Neal could be affecting her clarity of mind, her abilities. She could be wrong to defend her actions._

_On the other hand, how can such a connection be wrong, when she has done nothing wrong? There is nothing untoward in their interactions and conversations. Her status may be above his according to the laws society dictates, but that is of no consequence._

_Neal makes her feel like she is not alone._

_"Miss Swan?" The master of Sherwood Manor is concealed by mountains of paperwork on his desk._

_She clears her throat. "You called for me, sir. Miss Adelaide said you wished to speak to me."_

_"Ah yes — I did." There is a scuffle, and one of the mountains moves, assimilating with another pile of documents. Now he is visible, looking flustered though his attire is impeccable, as always. "Apologies for the chaos, Miss Swan. I'm afraid bills and letters do tend to accumulate quickly, given my infrequent presence here."_

_She decides now is not the right time to mention how much Roland speaks of his father or how much his son misses him._

_"Well then, best not to delay matters." Rising to his feet, he comes round to the front of his desk and leans against it, crossing his arms over his chest._

_She must brace herself for what is to come. Despite what the news may be, good or ill, she will face it with determination and courage. If she does not believe that she possesses both qualities, the small life she has will surely crumble away._

_Her employer heaves a heavy sigh, shaking his head. "I confess that I am at loss for words. I cannot describe how disheartened I was on discovering that you have been fraternizing with one of my servants. However, innocent until proven guilty. Is it true, that you have been spending your free time with Neal Cassidy?"_

_There was no point in denying the truth. "Yes, Mr. Locksley."_

_He cleared his throat. "And you admit that it is more than casual conversation — it is purposeful, correct?"_

_"Purposeful?"_

_"As in, you are seeking each encounter out. It is not accidental?"_

_She glares at her clasped hands. "It can be argued that all friendships, at some point, are accidental. However, maintaining a friendship makes it purposeful."_

_For the first time, she witnesses his smile. A true, breathtaking smile, one that almost makes her hope that she has been forgiven._

_"I have never been good at riddles, Miss Swan. Therefore, for both our sakes, let me make myself clear: I know that controlling one's feelings is a difficult task. I am not demanding that my workers and servants repel the possibility of love if they are lucky enough to come across it." He fingers the gold ring on his finger. "I simply want to avoid a chaotic unfolding of drama in my household. Illegitimate children, unwanted pregnancies...the heartbreak of rejection. These are casualties I wish to avoid altogether. Do you understand?"_

_"Neal and I — Mr. Cassidy and I — we are not even courting." She blushes at his inquiring gaze. "We are merely friends, sir. We are two lonely souls who wished to find a bit of companionship here. Upon my word, that is all we are to each other. There is no need to speak of babies and love stories."_

_He chuckles. "Speaking of love stories... My late wife, Lady Marian, was the daughter of my father's steward. We grew up together as children. Once we reached adulthood, our paths were clear. And yes, I made a choice that paints me as a hypocrite when I warn others not to do the same."_

_"It is your house, Mr. Locksley. You are free to do as you see fit."_

_"But, Miss Swan, I have no right to be unfair." He sighs. "Do not think I haven't noticed how much my fiancée amuses herself by putting you in a bad light, so to speak. I am aware that she disapproves of you, but I want to reaffirm that though she and I are soon to be married, I alone have power over my employees."_

_Her heart clatters against her ribcage. He has not defended his reasons for still marrying Regina, but that has nothing to do with Emma. How much longer will he keep her wondering about the status of her post?_

_"Roland and Henry..." He clears his throat. "They think very highly of you, Miss Swan. I have never seen my son form such a strong bond with any of his previous governesses or nurses. Henry too has undergone such a change since you came here. To hear their laughter in the hallways when I return home is...a tremendous blessing. You are quite a find, and no matter what Miss Mills prefers, I intend to keep you."_

_She bites down on her lip to hide oncoming tears. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. I hope you continue to have faith in me and my skills."_

_Smiling, he ushers her to the door. "You're doing fine work, Miss Swan. But a word of advice, for the future?"_

_She looks back at him._

_"Discretion is the key in all things. Please keep that in mind from now on, in dealings with your compatriots."_

* * *

The instant the last child leaves the schoolhouse and the door shuts behind her, Emma stops pretending everything is alright.

Everything could not be more wrong.

She was the teapot, filled with rising steam that had no means of escape. She counted every second after George left, crimson-faced and furious. She counted down the moment the clock in the corner, old and crooked and creaky, ticked its way to the final hour.

Now her temper is unleashed. She feels like throwing the broom at the wall, throwing _herself_ at the wall. If she creates a mess, she would only have to clean it up. She, on the other hand, is already broken. Whenever life crushes her under its foot, she shatters more, making it harder to put the pieces back together again.

_She will not cry._

The floor does not need to be swept. The blackboard is a dark void, empty of chalk. The quiet school, where she asked her students to peruse their old readers in silence, gave her plenty of opportunity to clean the room.

No one minded. The children had nothing to say to her, not after George and Keith barged in. The day's lessons were over.

The truth does hurt, much more than it should. And she should be accustomed to that by now, having a history of being disillusioned about so many things and so many people.

Nonetheless, every damn time that happens again, it always hurts just as much.

_She cannot cry._

"Emma?"

She is a puddle of skirts on the floor as she buries her face in her hands.

"Emma!" Two strong arms pull her towards the source of the voice. One hand parts her fingers, seeking the curve of her cheek. "Love, what's happened? What's wrong?"

Killian's kind, pleading expression — a small bouquet of wildflowers, colorful and wilted, tossed to the side by a single leather glove — the memory of George's sneer as he tore her down in front of her students—

"George Spencer and that vile Keith was here," she chokes out, unable to hold back another gut-wrenching sob. "He — he—"

"Was a bastard — I can bloody imagine what that conniving vulture is capable of." He embraces her. Then he pulls back, scrutinizing her from head to toe. His voice hardens. "Did they hurt you, Emma? If that arse only laid a finger on you—"

"No, he did not touch me." She shakes her head. "Only inside. He hurt me inside."

"I know. I know how much it hurts, and I'm sorry you have to endure that," he whispers. "But you're a tough lass. The light I've seen inside of you? A cad like Spencer cannot harm that. He has no real power."

"He can take away everything that is important to me, Killian. He can destroy my reputation here if he wants to."

His fingers stroke her hair, calmly and reassuringly. All the while, she feels how much his arms are shaking. "He might be able to, but I will not let him."

"You and I? Against the town magistrate and his constable?"

"Emma, I learned long ago that despite the world, despite every blow it can take at me and my body and my spirit... I will still remain. I can change and I can grow and I can die, but I will always exist. Not even a man like George Spencer can erase the memory of you."

"Because I remember myself?" she asks, incredulous.

He stares into her eyes then, not allowing her to look away. "Because the goodness in you is like the seeds of a flower, swept up by the wind. Your goodness lives on in the lives of the people you've touched with your soul. Needless to say, I could never forget you or what you have done for me."

Her own impulsive words, murmured in a moment of emotion, when she feared losing him. "What have I done?"

His gaze shines, as does his answering smile. "You helped me remember who I am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Greetings! I'm sorry it's taken me this long to post up a new chapter for this fic. I haven't forgotten any of my stories, I promise! RL has definitely been a pain in the neck.
> 
> By the by, I managed to get my promised writing blog up and in order, so you can now visit it [here](http://nataliathewriter.blogspot.com). 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for your patience and for reading my writing! I hope you've enjoyed this chapter - feedback is greatly appreciated!


	20. Winds of Change

_Emma has never captured fireflies before._

_It was Henry and Roland's idea. During science lessons, while she instructed them about insects, they talked of little else. When she told them that it was up to Miss Adelaide if she could spare a few precious mason jars from the kitchen, they almost leapt from their seats._

_And now here they are, catching the stubborn creatures with a net salvaged from a stocking. The soft luminescence of the full moon, an overlay of twinkling stars, and the bronze glow of several lanterns transform the small glade in the gardens into a magical place._

_Roland giggles as Henry tries and fails to trap a large group of fireflies at once, waving their makeshift net frantically with wild swoops and dives._

_"You look like a knight, fighting great enemies with your sword," she teases, holding tightly the jar with the most fireflies. It feels like embracing the sun in your arms, the way they smolder through the glass and outshine the coming night._

_"It shouldn't be so hard to win," he says through gritted teeth, "when they are only bugs!"_

_"But the bugs are winning! They must be smarter than you," Roland adds gleefully, shrieking when Henry drops the net in a huff and starts chasing after him. In mock anger, he growls, arms raised as if he were a great bear. They run in circles, fireflies forgotten, until Henry finally lunges and grabs Roland around the waist. He lifts the smaller boy off his feet and spins in circles, faster and faster till they collapse in a heap in the parting grass, laughing._

_"One would never think that they are about to become stepbrothers." Neal comes out of the darkness, carrying another lantern. The contrast between light and shadow only emphasizes his profile and the contours of his handsome face._

_She clears her throat, which has suddenly gone dry. She should not be thinking about how his appearance affects her. Instead, she should marvel at how he voiced her thoughts just now. Slowly, she lowers the jar to the ground, where it can rest safely next to its siblings._

" _What are you doing here?" A cool breeze sweeps across her face. She wraps her shawl more securely over her arms. "You are not supposed to be here."_

_"It happens that I was sent by the housekeeper to fetch you ― she says dinner is ready for the young masters and their feisty governess," he counters with a half-smile, also putting down his lantern._

_A smile darts across her face without her permission. She glances at her young charges, frolicking amid the rising number of fireflies, their hands extended upward as they try to touch those that fly beyond their reach. "Neal," she whispers in a low voice, "you know what Mr. Locksley said ― we cannot be openly seen together."_

_He cocks his head. "This hardly counts as_ _―"_

_"But it does!" She bows her head. "I do not want either of us to lose what is important to us because of one mistake."_

_His fingers, gentle and persuasive, lift her chin so that she is looking straight into his eyes. That soft, kind, moonlit sea of dark brown and green accents, beckons to her conflicted heart._

_Then he takes her hand into his, pressing a kiss to her palm while the boys are occupied. "What is important to me, Emma, is that I see you again. I cannot begin to express how much our conversations and shared moments have meant to me over the past months." He exhales raggedly. "I look forward to any chance I have of seeing you again. Please."_

_He sounds earnest and forthcoming. And she knows how much she wants to believe him._

_"Meet me behind the stables tomorrow, when you are free." His bright gaze pleads with her. "We'll have a picnic, and then I have a surprise for you ― an adventure. Will you come?"_

_The boys' laughter rings out once more, joyous and carefree. A sudden stab of loneliness pains her deep within, reminding her that they are not her children. They are her students. Robin is her employer, and that is all he will ever be to her, no matter how understanding he is. She cannot be friends with any of the servants thanks to their difference in station._

_Somehow, she found a kinship with Neal, a forbidden friendship that makes her anxious to meet with him. She will not lose what she has, even though there are great risks involved._

_She will not lose him because she is afraid._

_"Hullo Neal," says a smiling Roland, tugging on his sleeve. "We are catching fireflies with Miss Swan."_

_Neal grins back. "And I can see you have done a fine job of it, Master Roland. Say, what do you have hidden in your hand there?"_

_"More fireflies!" he answers, jumping up and down. "I caught them all by myself." Then his smile turns into a frown. "But..."_

_"But what?"_

_Roland seems disappointed instead of proud. "There aren't any jars left to put them in. It was Miss Swan's idea ― the jars, that is."_

_It is true. All around them lie jars filled to the brim with the sparkling rebels, buzzing against the sealed lids in a bid to escape their glass prison._

_Still grinning, Neal leans down and picks up the jar nearest her. Never taking his eyes off her, he slowly unscrews the lid. A burst of light showers over their faces, illuminating them, as the fireflies emerge in unison. Roland gasps and calls for Henry to join him._

_She hardly hears them cheering in the background, saying goodbye to their short-lived science project._

_All she can think and see is the genuine happiness in Neal's expression as he watches them fly away into the darkness._

_"Here," he reminds Roland, his voice unusually quiet, "put yours in here. Now there's room."_

_Several fireflies are trapped anew, for the sake of boyish curiosity, and the empty jar is now full again. But the most startling thing that happens is when Neal gives her the jar, gently pushing it into her arms. Embracing it, she opens her mouth to ask him why._

_Again, he seems to read her thoughts before she can voice them. "Nothing can be trapped forever. Sooner or later, we all must fly free." Stepping away from her side, he yells over to the boys, "Come now, Miss Adelaide says it is time for your supper ― let's send the rest back to where they belong!"_

_The next minutes pass by like an eternity would. She is entranced by the sight of dozens of fireflies outshining the stars while they sweep across the heavens, rejoicing in their freedom._

_It is during the journey back to the house that she ponders his words. He gathered all the emptied jars into a burlap sack and slung it over his shoulder, leaving her alone with Roland and Henry and one lantern. Neal will undoubtedly take his meal in the servants' quarters, as alone as she will be when she takes hers in her room._

_Once she has escorted her students to the housekeeper's care, she almost races to the grand study. Grabbing a piece of paper, she hastily scribbles what has been weighing on her mind since Neal and she parted ways tonight._

_Although it could be considered scandalous, she sneaks outside without being seen and seeks the shack where Neal sleeps. The window is lit, and there is also light peeking out from under the door. Peering about, she slips the note underneath it._

_He will find it. He told her that he reads books at night by candlelight, a pastime he cherishes from childhood days, so he must still be awake._

_Before he can open the door and embarrass her, she runs back to her quarters. She feels reckless and wild and strangely free ― as free as the fireflies that greeted the night sky._

_She too wants to fly someday. And freedom means taking the chances she can today, not tomorrow or another day._

_Bravery and freedom are born tonight._

Neal, I don't care what anyone says or thinks of us. I care about us. I care about you. I care about seeing you as often as I can. Until tomorrow, my dear friend.

* * *

That must be a green shoot, poking its tiny head through the dark soil. He squints hard at it, bending over to ensure his vision is correct.

Aye, the flowers are beginning to bloom. Well, the start of them in any case, the shrubs and leaves and buds that will transform into the gorgeous blooms he has only seen in famous botanical gardens.

All around him, the seeds he has planted have taken root and are growing. It is maddening to wait for their progress, but fascinating to watch them develop little by little. One day, they will stand tall and proud, high above all else in the vicinity.

And he is ready for it all — despite one negative greengrocer's predictions that when flowers come, insects and blight are sure to follow. Mr. French is an unpleasant man, to be sure, but gardening has its woes as well as its merits. Any man knows that for every joy in life, there is a matching sorrow that may happen.

Bloody insects, though... He is not looking forward to meeting that array of turmoil and distress. The damn challenges we face in life for the ones we care about, he muses to himself as he waters each seedling.

Nevertheless, seeing his handiwork come to fruition will be well worth any troubles. Not to mention bringing a smile to the face of a certain lass in town.

"That's your big secret, then, Mr. Jones."

He nearly jumps out of his shoes and drops the bucket on the ground. It eagerly laps up the spilled water, one minute a small pool and the next an empty one.

"Apologies if I startled you." Emma seems to be suppressing a smile right now, given how she is biting down on her lower lip. "You have a garden now, it seems." Crossing her arms over her chest, she joins his side and peers up at him. Her eyes are gleaming. "This wouldn't have anything to do with my advice, would it? Certain remarks I made once?"

He swallows, wishing for a moment to think of a witty response. Bloody hell, his mind is a blank sheet. With a forced grin, he stutters, "No, of course not, Miss Swan. I...thought the place needed some livening up. Dirt can be such a dreary landscape to look at, I'm sure you agree."

"Is that so?" She smirks at him. "David told me that this paddock has been barren for years before you took up residence here. And until today, it has remained so. What has changed?"

Despite her playful tone, her questions seem serious. "Well, I'll be honest with you, lass." He sighs, preparing his next words. "The truth is that I have been living in the past long enough. It may not be easy for me to let go of my regrets, my mistakes...those whom I've loved and lost...or even my desire for revenge against my enemies. But I am determined to try, thanks to you."

"To turn a patch of dirt into the Garden of Eden?"

Though Emma appears to take his confession lightly, he knows she understands. The hesitation in her eyes confirms that she is weighing her responses to him.

To ease the tension, he offers a wide smirk. "No, to add to the considerable beauty of Storybrooke, my dear Miss Swan, which in turn would add greatly to my own happiness." She scoffs at his attempt at sarcasm, but it is worth the small smile pending on her fine lips. "But never mind my struggles with the shovel and hoe. Pray tell, what brings you up here on such a fine day?"

It is then that her careful mask, an emotionless expression, falls. "Killian." She sighs, turning her face so he cannot look into her eyes. "I came to get away. From everything below."

He hoped she wished to see  _him_  instead of escape from reality. However, he will not reject the unexpected gift of her presence. Swallowing down the slight twinge of hurt he feels, he decides to prod at her reasoning. "This is not the only place where you can go to do that."

She looks embarrassed, whispering, "Alright, I was not only thinking of myself. I also wanted to keep my promises. Mrs. Lucas and her granddaughter are occupied today, so here I am, ready to repay you."

He winces inwardly. Ah, that. Come to think of it, she is dressed in a manner suitable for housework. If he were less excited to see her, perhaps this would not have eluded his notice.

He should be happy nevertheless. She is doing him a great service. It is not as if he isn't getting anything out of their bargain for art lessons.

Why then has his heart plummeted to the bottom of his chest like a stone thrown into the sea?

She has come out of duty, more than her need to avoid the townsfolk and more than her need to visit him. Ever since Spencer challenged her abilities as a teacher, she has been as reclusive as Killian was months ago, refusing to leave the lighthouse. David remarked during one of his recent visits that she even has declined to visit his farm and Miss Mary has spoken rarely to her. Day in and out, Emma has retreated to the safety of her cottage once school lessons ended — more than two weeks of this behavior already.

Killian fears it will not end now. Spencer too has been oddly silent and aloof, a serpent waiting for the right opportunity to strike. His minion Keith has also stayed out of sight. There have been no incidents as of late. And the Nolans and he are deeply troubled by that unsettling peace.

"Aye, there is that." He finally clears his throat. "Why don't you come inside and I will show you where all the supplies are?"

She cannot bring her eyes to meet his. He regrets that he agreed to this arrangement.

Moreover, this awkward situation is not helping matters between them. After their shared moment in the schoolhouse, with her crying in his arms and his admittance about how much of a positive influence she has been in his life, he hoped... He hopes—

She is wringing her hands together again, skittish as a wild horse. Her gaze darts toward the path whence she came.

Gritting his teeth to stifle a deep sigh, he leads the way with an extended hand —  _his only hand_ — abandoning the fallen watering can.

Like it or not, what he feels for Emma must wait. Right now, she needs his understanding, as a friend, more than anything else he can give her.

* * *

A strand of hair escapes from the scarf wrapped around Emma's head. She stuffs the locks back under the fabric and silently reprimands them for the interruption.

In her haste to reach the lighthouse before dawn, so no one would see her, she forgot to include such a practical item in her ensemble. She had donned a chignon, as befit a proper lady, but her hair pins were old and clumsy.

She must have been quite the pathetic sight, with her pins practically coming undone, as she stared at the full water bucket, brush, soap bar, and rags on the floor. Killian had made a noise in his throat, disappeared into his chambers, and brought back a black scarf. It was colorful, embroidered with red thread. Garlands of roses adorned something too beautiful to be used while cleaning. She told him she could not accept it.

He shrugged and left her alone with her tumbling thoughts.

Pragmatism conquered her foolish sensibilities. God knows an empty room did not care if she wore the scarf or not.

The brush grates against the stone floor, cold and unyielding. She dares not ask if he wishes for her to scour the other two rooms, but it is likely that he will. After all, she knows his secret. Aside from the tiles, there is not much to clean. Furniture is limited, so polishing it will be simple and quick. Then there is the matter of the windows — does he expect her to wash the lighthouse glass panes as well as these on the ground floor?

She hates dusters, which leaves the broom and dustbin as her only comrades. Together, they venture forth and bravely coax dust balls out of hiding. Dear Lord, she will need a bath this evening if she can manage to heat enough water.

The silence is unnerving. It is peaceful, but also intimidating. She pauses often to catch an echo of his footsteps, the rough scuffle that comes from constant work and movement.

He must be in his garden that she cannot hear him. The image of him, smiling about sprouts and budding leaves, fills her mind in a comforting way. There is nothing to fear here. No phantoms, no bad memories.

He is her friend, and she owes him a favor. This is a favor, not a debt, because the look in his eyes tells her he would say no more if she refused or reneged on her promise. He is a gentleman and a man of honor, and she must believe in that. She cannot lose faith.

This brings a spring to her step as she makes rounds, inspecting what she has accomplished so far. She will take care of the windows and remaining rooms once she has asked him for further instructions.

It helps that Killian is so organized. Everything, from the vegetables in the small cellar to the flour in a sealed barrel, is exactly where she expected it to be. It was provident that she took yeast from her own supplies with her, as he seems to have none on hand. Water is the main ingredient she needs for both her planned stew and loaves of bread. She also wants to surprise him with a sweet treat if she can.

Frowning, she eyes the empty wooden bucket.

She needs to visit the well.

* * *

Tugging a cumbersome weight across what feels like a mile of terrain drags Emma's buoyant spirits down into the depths of irritation. Killian is nowhere in sight, but even if he was, she does not want to ask him for help. She is no damsel and her arms work just fine.

But damn it all, why does the well have to be in the middle of craggy rocks jutting out of soft soil? The soles of her shoes slip more than once on the smooth surface as she dashes from footstep to footstep, fearing that water will escape and she will have to return. Her hands ache from the burn of the rope, and her shoulders are sore from pulling and yanking it up.

Drawing water from a well conjures such romantic imagery. A wonder, considering how it is nothing but drudgery in real life.

With a dry chuckle, she finally makes it to the door.

Which refuses to budge.

She hits her fists against the wood in desperation. She is certain that it can only be locked from the inside with a key. If it is stuck in the opening, perhaps the wind shut it closed.

Again, she pounds the wood, pushing with all her might.

Of course this would happen. She has no good fortune when it comes to accomplishing things by herself. Now she will look quite the fool when she seeks Killian out to assist in this menial cause.

Groaning, she stomps toward the lighthouse and races up the stairs. He must be up there. If not, did he truly abandon her here while he went off somewhere?

She catches herself before she slips on one step —  _again_  — and keeps going. Humming fills the air, words of a melody falling through the sequence of low notes. The deep male voice is unmistakable. Against her will, her face becomes heated. The one time she was here before, they nearly kissed.

Heights only lead to trouble. However, the beauty of the view is perhaps the appealing side of this job for him. Otherwise, she cannot see how anyone could want to be alone like that, chained to the top of a building day and night.

Or perhaps she is being a hypocrite in refusing to acknowledge her own loneliness.

"Killian? Killian, it is I. I need your help."

Her final step onto the platform propels her into the one place she should not be: the bare arms and torso of one Killian Jones, who looks both surprised and amused.

"Whoa there, love. Wasn't expecting you to come on up here."

She can even feel his hot skin through her sleeves. Emma withdraws from his embrace and settles herself by the railing, a safe distance away from him. Her heart is rattling.

On regaining her wits, she notices that his suspenders are hanging down, the lighthouse lamp is lying on the ground, and several, greasy rags covered with black marks are by his discarded shirt.

"Why are you not wearing a shirt?" she mutters before she can contain herself.

His grin is a bit smug. "Does that bother you, my lack of a shirt?"

His uncovered chest is a sight not for a proper lady, which she is trying hard to be at the moment. Clearing her throat, she replies, "You did not answer my question first."

He chuckles. "Very well. The reason my shirt is off is so I can avoid the hindrance of additional laundry. I don't want to be more of a burden to you, considering how unpleasant it is to wash off oil and grease smears from one's skin, let alone one's clothes."

"I see."

"Do you? Will you now answer my question, love?"

"You are free to do as you please in your own abode," she answers, shrugging. "I was simply taken aback. Most gentlemen take great pains to hide their...nudity."

"True, and I'm always a gentleman. However, I hardly view this particular situation to be offensive or obscene — especially when it is of great benefit to both you and me."

"It does not benefit me, Killian!"

"So you are disturbed by it."

"I did not say that, only that it makes me uncomfortable."

"Uncomfortable." He rolls the word over his teeth. "I find that when a lady is uncomfortable, she is delving into uncharted waters of feeling. Not necessarily unpleasant feelings. Judging by the color of your cheeks, you must find those feelings embarrassing."

"You are too bold, sir." She glares at the floor. "I do not wish to discuss this subject. Please don your shirt and open the door of your house so I can complete my duties and leave you to your...situation."

He shows her his hand, which is covered in oil. "Unfortunately, I will only be able to fulfill the second of those requests. Unless..."

"Unless?" she prods.

"You can help me put it on."

"No."

"Why not, Swan?" His eyes are unapologetically playful. "I thought you were my friend. Have you changed your mind? Would you like me to just go down as I am?"

And risk someone seeing him in that state? With her bad luck, one of the townsfolk might visit the lighthouse this instant. What would they think of him and her coming down the stairs, with her red face and his visible torso?

Gritting her teeth, she leans over and picks up his shirt.

Smirking, he raises his arms over his head. Standing on her tiptoes, she struggles to fit the sleeves over his stained hand and his lack of the other. She should have offered to at least wipe his hand off before attempting such a feat.

But she can't keep looking at him disrobed!

However, succeed she does, and without touching any dangerous skin. His chest disappears underneath unrevealing fabric. She heaves a sigh of relief.

"Thank you. Now that is out of the way..." He tilts his head, still smoldering at her. "How may I be of assistance?"

* * *

He not only opens the door but also carries the bucket of water inside, placing it gently on the counter. Then he straightens and surveys her handiwork, nodding his approval.

"Well done, Swan. You have my thanks."

"You're most welcome. I was meaning to ask if you wish for the other rooms to be cleaned — and the windows. I was preparing sustenance before the wind shut me outside."

"If you wish to."

"If I wish? What about your wishes? Our deal—"

"Our deal." He purses his lips. "Our deal is mutually optional. I will not hold you to your side of the bargain if you wish to be released from it. Say the word, and we will speak no more of it."

"I gave you my word," she insists, crossing her arms over her chest.

His voice hardens. "I know what it is like to be under obligation to another. And I know I accepted your word, but I was a fool. No lady should be doing this, especially for me."

"Doing what, exactly? Helping you?"

His tone quiets. "I apologize for my behavior in the lighthouse. I appeared nonchalant, but I admit I was anything but. The thought of you cleaning my personal effects, stooping to that... I could not stay and watch. I would have acted in a way undeserving of your kindness."

She attempts a laugh. It sounds weak and unconvincing. "More comments about indecent attire?"

His answering smile is too sad. "More like a flaring outburst of temper. After all these years, it is hard for me to accept my...disability and what that means for the rest of my life. Cleaning my house or preparing a simple meal reminds me acutely of that reality."

Against her better judgment, she rests her hand on his shoulder. He seems stunned. He always seemed stunned that she sees exactly who he is but does not turn away. "I am not ashamed of being here. Neither should you."

Guiding him to the sink, she works the bar of soap into a lather and washes the oil from both his hand and his stump. He lets her. He does not even twitch or flinch. After she gently rinses off the suds with water from the bucket, she finds the dishcloth he left for her and tosses it to him. He catches it with one hand and a wide grin.

"No more excuses." Eyebrows raised, she grabs the apron she brought and ties it around her waist. "We are going to make bread, and you are going to help me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm so sorry I took such a long hiatus from the writing scene. The last half year, writing was very hard for me. I avoided it like the plague.
> 
> This story is now one of two incomplete multi-chapters left so I can dedicate all my attention to its completion. We have 20 chapters to go and I hope you'll be around for their appearance! I want to make updates more frequent as soon as possible. Thank you so much for your patience and for reading my work! Reviews are ALWAYS appreciated. ♥ 
> 
> P.S. For news about my original fiction and other updates, please visit [my writing blog](https://nataliathewriter.blogspot.com). You also can always message me privately on FF.net - my account is still active under the same username as here.


	21. Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: HAPPY 4TH BIRTHDAY TO THIS STORY!!!!!!

_The lake adjoining Robin's estate is of moderate size, encircled by countless trees that wind about the shoreline and keep it out of sight. Despite the soft mist gliding over its surface, the water is clear as glass, a shining reflection of all that happens above it. Silence as heavy and encompassing as the greatest cacophony is disturbed only by the occasional calls and chatter of passing fowl._

_And in the center, obscured by weeping willows bowing to touch the lapping waves, is a tiny island. This tip of earth protrudes defiantly, daring the water to swallow it whole._

_The atmosphere is mythic. Tomes of poetry and stories support her imagination's glorious wanderings while she enters what feels to be a land of magic._

_"I am fairly confident that this boat will not leak, though you can never be too sure. You can swim, I hope?"_

_Confused and almost hurt, Emma glares at Neal. Why must reality cruelly rip her away from her fantasies? "What did you say?"_

_Rolling his eyes, he offers her his hand again. "I asked if you can swim, Miss Swan. Thrash your legs, wave your arms, keep your head above the water. More preferable to drowning."_

_Ah, he wants to help her into the boat — made of rotting wood, tilting to its left side, with oars the width of sticks, looking more and more unsafe every minute._

_Then she catches him peering at her skirts as if her legs might appear from them at any moment. Her cheeks are inflamed. "Neal Cassidy, how dare you ask a proper lady if she can swim! No gentleman would ever ask such a question."_

_"I do not consider myself to be on the same level as such like-minded gentlemen," he answers with a chuckle. "Nor do I think it wise to escort one's companion in a vessel like this without determining the practical side of things first. Since you obviously cannot swim, I will be forced to rescue you if any unpleasantries happen. Knowing that in advance is an advantage, wouldn't you agree?"_

_No need to dignify that assumption with a reply. Pushing back her embarrassment, she scrutinizes the boat again. "Or perhaps this is an ill-fated voyage and we should forget the idea altogether. Isn't such caution wise?"_

_He smirks. "You're afraid to take a chance. Well, that was to be expected."_

_Her fear transforms immediately into rage. Chin tilted upward, she stares him down with a sense of challenge and defiance. "I have no idea what you mean. I am_ _mistress of myself and therefore not afraid of anything because I won't let myself be._ _And that's final." Her cold smile hardens more. "Now move aside so I can climb into the damn boat."_

* * *

Killian flings himself onto the settee, a deep groan of exhaustion escaping him. His eyes close of their own accord. Manual labor is just as he bloody remembers it to be — painful and draining, leaving a person without bloody words. He is never baking bread again.

Someone pointedly clears her throat in front of him. "Don't tell me that you are tired, Mr. Jones."

He smiles in spite of how boneless he feels. After all, he enjoys their lively banter so much so that resisting an opportunity is futile. "Forgive me, Miss Swan, but I must confess that I do not much work with my arms these days. Aye, I walk a great deal, but I am no schoolteacher — or baker, for that matter. As it happens, I have not used these particular muscles so strenuously as today since my days at sea."

Too late, he realizes the words that slipped from his stupid mouth. He slowly opens one eyelid to gauge her reaction. She is peering down at him, her arms crossed over her chest.

"You were a sailor?"

He throws an arm over his face, blocking out the sight of her inquisitive stare. "Truly, lass, I'm in no mood for telling stories presently."

"Were you in the navy? Or perhaps... perhaps you were a bloodthirsty pirate, stealing and pillaging in search of gold and treasure?"

"Piracy is outdated as a career. And I am surprised, Miss Swan, surprised and hurt that you would think me capable of such malice! Fie, I say, fie!" he cries out with mock energy.

"Hmm... You ignored my first question. Therein must lie the key to your past." There is a soft deflating sound next to him. She must have sat down as well. "To answer your accusation, the only reason I suggested piracy in the first place was—" She pauses. "Well, I—"

"Am I that dashing?" He does not mean to sound caustic, but his voice cuts the air like a sharp blade. "Or perhaps my reputation in town inspired you."

"Come now." Her tone is soft, gentle and insistent. "I was only teasing. I did not wish to offend in any way. Did you choose the sea?"

Memories sweep by, rolling waves and feverish storms and Liam's smile. "More so that it chose me. And my brother."

He suspects she is waiting for him, to tell his story at his own pace. While he would rather avoid the unpleasantry altogether, he cannot help how easily his mind returns to those times. Times when life was joyful and tumultuous and exhilarating.

"I cannot remember a moment in our childhood when Liam and I were apart. Older and believing himself wiser," he lets out a chuckle, "he took it upon himself to watch over me and my upbringing. Our mother died bringing me into the world, and our father had an unhealthy fascination with gambling. He worked hard as a blacksmith, but he rarely spent his nights at home. Liam was both guardian and brother. It was he who prepared our suppers, washed our clothes, and taught me how to read and write. Nonetheless, he never acted ashamed or resentful of his responsibilities. He was patient, persevering, and hopeful. I could not have asked for a more loyal companion or friend."

A surge of grief shakes his limbs, making him long for a full bottle of rum. But she is here and he must finish so that there are no secrets left to hide.

"Then, everything changed in the blink of an eye. I was nine years old when my father took me and Liam on an unexpected sea voyage. He promised our destination meant a new life for all three of us — together. I was still such a child, Emma, and despite his faults, I loved my father. I believed him, believed  _in_  him. I was a bloody fool."

Her hand covers his, and when their fingers intertwine, he has the strength to go on.

"One morning, a storm awoke us. My father was gone from the cabin, and as we soon discovered, from the ship. He had fled in the night. The captain ever so kindly informed us our father was a fugitive, running from his debts and a sure visit to prison. But before he left, my father had taken care of our unpaid passage, at least." He hears the rising anger in his voice — the hurt and resentment and fear — and briefly wonders if she can hear it, too. "Aye, he took care of it, he did. He did bloody well by us, selling his only offspring into servitude to buy the captain's silence."

Now her hand is trembling.

"Aye, he did." Brokenly, he clears the strangling inside his chest by coughing out the repugnant words. "For nearly a decade, we slaved on that disgusting vessel. Liam was a beacon of optimism and strength, while I wallowed in hatred. It was hell on earth for us both. That existence seemed an eternity until we saved our meager pennies and scraped our way out of it. We bartered for navy commissions — a lucky wager, I should say — and never laid eyes on that despicable bastard of a captain again. Liam rose in rank over a decade, became a captain himself. I became a lieutenant. And for that short while, God was kind."

She murmurs, "Is that when you met Milah?"

Her breath rustles his shirt and caresses his skin. Warmth washes over his eyelids like rays of sunlight. "Milah? Oh no, that was a tragedy for a later scene, much later." He had not had a single thought or wish for female companionship back then, absorbed by his duties and his devotion to the one person who cared unselfishly for him. Slowly, his arm reaches around her waist. After no sign of protest, it stays there. "As much as I loved my brother, he could be such a stubborn arse at times."

She chuckles, and he joins in. He thinks back to when Liam lectured him, reprimanded him, praised him. He would have all those moments again if he could, even when he was red-faced from shame or anger.

"Liam had a good heart. A strong, honorable heart. He was good, kind, thoughtful. Everything I wasn't. He never said, but I think he was lonely, even homesick. He missed our father more. To ignore that pain, he worked harder and harder, eating little and sleeping less. It weakened him. And I—"

He suddenly is confronted with reliving Liam's death. The loss of his hand. As if in silent answer, phantom pain stabs his left wrist, and his eyes burn.

_The hours he waited in his cabin, praying for Liam's recovery. The months he himself spent in the hospital... Isolated in the infirmary ward. Restrained to the bed so he could not make any more attempts on his own life._

_When he had nothing left._

"I was a selfish bastard."

* * *

_"Watch your step, now."_

_Emma is tempted to jump out of the boat, if only to demonstrate that she is more than capable. This entire journey has been an unwanted lesson in patience — as if they could not have had a simple outing. Holding back her irritation, she gracefully descends while accepting his proffered hand. The momentary contact gives her a flush of warmth she tries to ignore._

_The island is as overgrown and tumultuous as it appeared from the lakeshore. Underbrush embraces crooked trees. The odor of decaying manure mixes with the fresh scent of rising vapor, overwhelming her nose. Where on earth are they supposed to have a picnic here? On the dirt?_

_"Romantic, isn't it?"_

_The veiled sarcasm in Neal's voice sparks her temper again. "Most landscapes only look so from distance but not upon closer inspection. Are you familiar with this place, that you chose it?"_

_His easy, casual tone further annoys her. "In a way. I noticed it once when I was bringing Phantom back from one of his escapades. And I thought...it looks isolated enough."_

_"That is why we are here? Because you wanted us to be alone?"_

_He tilts his head, scrutinizing her. "It was my understanding that privacy is important to you. That you want to keep our affairs to ourselves. This island fulfills such a desire perfectly, wouldn't you agree?"_

_She will regret the words on her tongue later if she doesn't mind herself now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hello, my dear readers. I apologize endlessly for my continued lapses in updating. Writing and I have fought tremendously since I last posted a chapter for this story. 
> 
> I try my best. That's the most I can do right now. 
> 
> Anyhow, I hope you've enjoyed the new update and of course, please do leave a review! I reply to as many as I can because I love and appreciate feedback. Thank you for reading! I pray I'll be able to get out another chapter to you soon!
> 
> Also...can you believe this fic is 4 years old already? Wow.
> 
> P.S. For news about my original fiction and other updates, please visit [my writing blog](https://nataliathewriter.blogspot.com). You also can always message me privately on FF.net - my account is still active under the same username as here.


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